


And the Days were Red

by lavenderforluck



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Domestic Violence, Explicit Language, Florida AU, Islamophobia, M/M, Past Sexual Assault, Racism, Recreational Drug Use, University AU, Unrequited Love, descriptions of american-iraq war, nyu au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-14 20:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 66,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2201214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderforluck/pseuds/lavenderforluck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love must be an open wound. Florida verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tangerine Fizz

**Author's Note:**

> This is the long time coming re-post of Florida verse! The first three were originally posted on LJ - they've been re-edited and re-worked only slightly, with no major changes. 
> 
> I think it's important for me to note that I originally started writing this during my senior year of high school, and I was dealing with a lot of emotional problems at them time, and I wrote this to work through them. Without saying any more about my personal life, this story deals with victims, survivors, bystanders and witnesses of sexual assault and rape. This is a major theme of the story, and surfaces in each chapter of the story. I want to be quite honest that I really discourage anyone from reading this if it may be trigger-y for them. Sometimes I walk into a fic thinking I will be okay when it deals with this subject and them I'm surprisingly not, and I would hate for this story to make anyone feel that way. Writing about it, for me, helps. I'm not able to talk about in any other facet of my life.
> 
> On another, slightly related note, another major theme of this story is racism and Islamphobia. I wrote this initially just after having read The Kite Runner, so I'm sure you find some similar themes from that novel, which deeply affected me as a teenager. None of the views expressed in this story are my own personally, but I thought it was important and complex and challenging to write about. 
> 
> The poem referenced in the title, this chapter and ones after this is titled Scheherazade by Richard Siken.
> 
> Any warnings you think I should include, please let me know and I will right add them away. If you want explicit warnings and don't mind spoilers, send me a message and I'll happily tell you.
> 
> Much love to all of you.

**Tangerine Fizz**  
  
-  
  
 _We were born and raised,_  
  
 _in a summer haze,_  
  
 _bound by the surprise,_  
  
 _of our glory days_  
  
 _Someone like You_ , Adele.  
  
-  
  
The funeral is on a Tuesday in August. He feels sticky in his suit and he tugs at his collar, his bony butt quickly becoming sore from unforgiving wooden pew. Harry’s eyes are unabashedly fixated on the back of Louis’ neck. He drinks in the line of his shoulders, the way a few wisps of hair swirl at the base of his neck. It’s been in need of a cutting all summer.  
  
Relatives and close friends of the Tomlinsons are solemn, some crying. None of them can really say they knew Jay like Louis knew her, but most of them understand how she was the center of that family. Jay was a lover. And now she is gone.  
  
After the ceremony, Louis grasps people’s hands and thanks them for coming, but there’s a distant look in his eyes that Harry hasn’t seen in years. All the bouncing, jostling humor is removed from his face. There is no light underneath his skin. It’s unnerving.  
  
Felicite sits on his hip, hugging his shoulders as Harry makes his way through the crowd, finding Louis. He takes Fizz from him, greeting Harry with a private smile. Harry is unable to return it, a grimace returning to his features. Louis was always better at concealing his emotions. Harry was always better at containing them.  
  
-  
  
They escape later, after the girls had been given their baths and put to bed, tired and sad from the day of long proceedings. It is early in the evening, the summer sun finally set behind the hills. The sky is a dull lavender, and it smells like honeysuckle on the Tomlinson back porch. Louis nurses a tumbler of scotch, swirling around the contents. Harry leans against the railing next to him, their shoulders knocking. Neither of them say much of anything.  
  
Harry wouldn’t know where to begin. Instead, he nudges Louis’ hand with his own, covering the fingers and squeezing them. Louis spares a glance his way, his eyes weary and heavy lidded.  
  
Harry swallows the wetness in the back of his throat.  
  
They kiss like they used to, slow and languid.. Louis presses his fingers into Harry’s hipbones, his smart dress pants slung low on his hips, and Harry snakes his hands underneath Louis’ armpits and up his back like a vice grip. They kiss like they’re saying goodbye.  
  
-  
  
Harry’s plane to La Guardia leaves the next day, back for his sophomore year at NYU. It had started on a  whim, transforming into a fever dream of attending American university together once Harry had finished his A levels. Just the previous year he followed Louis to dazzling, effervescent New York City for their first year. Together.  
  
This time, Harry leaves without him. They both understand, but when he goes in for their parting hug he ends up gripping at Louis’ back, pulling at the bone and taut muscle, in a futile effort to take as much of him as he can. To be away from him feels like he’s been stung, his whole body throbbing. Louis smiles the same tired smile he has been the past few weeks, like he’s aged a billion years in just a month, with Lottie standing just behind his hip, looking around at all the bustling airport people with worried curiosity.  
  
Harry dips down to hug her, as Daisy and Phoebe crowd around his flanks. They all have such little, warm hands. They smell like their mother’s flower garden back in Doncaster. They smell like Louis and home.  
  
“You take care of your brother for me, alright?” Harry whispers into Lottie’s ear. She’s stronger than either of them ever gave her credit for. She nods, and he tucks a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear.  Felicite kisses both his cheeks in parting as  Louis scoops Phoebe up with his tanned arms.  
  
When he looks up Harry can see he’s trying not to cry, that he’s put on his Big Brother face. Harry walks slowly, not wanting to turn his back on them as he edges the confines of airport security.  
  
There’s guilt in his gut, and he keeps turning to the seat next to him, only to find it occupied by someone else.  
  
-  
  
New York City is louder.  Everything smells strong and people talk with their mouths wide open, the sound of their voices echoing abrasively. There is next to no trace of Louis when Harry returns to school.  
  
Niall wasn’t supposed to be his roommate this year, but considering the circumstance, Harry couldn’t ask for a better one. They weren’t many other British students in his year, and both Louis and Harry had been grateful to meet Niall, an Irish bio major with large glasses and penchant for making friends with anyone. Niall is the type of person that made you feel like you didn’t tell him you loved him enough.  
  
“How’s Louis doing?” This is the first question Niall asks when Harry dumps his duffel on the single bed. Opposite him is a bunk bed with Niall’s trademark Irish flag bedspread on the top, which mean that bottom bunk was reserved for Liam, their only American friend in their tight-knit circle. Harry swallows thickly, wondering if they consider Louis even in their group anymore now that he’s gone.  
  
Harry shrugs, another wave of stress rolling off his shoulders at the mention of Louis. “It’s tough. He’s all the girls have now. Mark’s made it pretty clear that he’s got a new family now, so.”  
  
“From the way Lou put it, Mark’s always been a right wanker though, right? Maybe they’re better off?”  
  
Harry nods even though he doesn’t necessarily agree. He feels tired and heavy, and not just from the jet lag. He crawls into his bed, saluting Niall and curling around his duffel, too lazy to kick on his shoes or push his luggage to the floor.  
  
-  
  
Harry and Louis text on and off, using long distance calling cards and time zone sensitive Skype sessions, but mostly Louis is so busy between working and busing the girls from school to their various activities, that they barely have more than a few minutes to chat. Louis looks tired, almost all the time, but better. Stronger. Harry sometimes reaches out to touch the screen when they facetime, wishing he were there for real so that he could feel his skin. He is irrationally scared that the memory will fade over the course of the school year.  
  
Before this, there had never been a reason for Harry to give their relationship a concise definition; wherever Louis went, Harry wasn’t far behind. Since children they’d been best friends, and by the time Harry had turned fifteen they’d truly gotten together. In a small community like Doncaster, it was easier to let everyone just assume they were close, and so the topic of boyfriends never came up. Retrospectively, Harry thinks it was obvious how small town and naive they were.  
  
It was  rarely was it a question raised amongst family and friends; they had been inseparable since childhood. Jo used to always laugh and say they shared the same soul, because simply put, they were never apart. There wasn’t ever a reason to be. There was never anyone else.  
  
-  
  
Which is why Harry feels like his entire internal organ system has been ripped from inside of him and strung up around the streets of New York when Louis calls him one night and says, “I think we need to break up,” like it’s that easy.  
  
Harry is dumbfoundedly silent, only finding his breath when Louis says, “Harry?”  
  
“Break up? What?” At the word break up, Niall shoots up from his bed, looking down at Harry, a worried expression evident on his face. “We - Um. I’m sorry?”  
  
“I think,” Louis starts, but then stops to take a shuddering breath, “It’s best. It’s for the best. You’re young and unburdened. And in New York. I’m….”  
  
“You’re - ?” Harry prods, because none of this makes any fucking sense to him.  
  
“I’m here. I’m here with the girls.”  
  
“I can be there too,” Harry whispers, bargaining, because it truly cannot end like this. “If that’s what you want.”  
  
Harry imagines Louis biting his lip. “No, Haz. I don’t want that. I want you to be free. Free from me and all these complications.”  
  
“Wait,” Harry says, sitting up and rubbing his free hand over his jean clad knee, kneading the flesh there worriedly. “When have I ever implied that this was complicated? I’ve been - _fuck_ , Lou, I’ve been trying really - “  
  
“ - I know,” Louis voice is firm in a way that Harry knows he’s already decided. Dread fills him, because Louis’ already decided and there’s no changing his mind.  
  
There’s a rattling breath on the other end - Louis’ crying. Shit, he’s fucking _crying_ , and something inside of Harry has physically broken. The distance between them has never been more awful, because he can’t do anything but listen to him cry, phone protesting under his clenched fist.  
  
“Lou,” Harry’s resorting to pleading. He never saw this fucking coming. It’s a Tuesday. A normal fucking Tuesday.  “Lou. Please. Don’t do this. Christmas will be here sooner than you think and I’ll come home and - “  
  
“No. Harry. It’s. I’m bloody sorry that I’m such a fuck up,” Louis mutters lowly, and catches himself from letting out a sob. “But we can’t - we can’t be together anymore. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”  
  
“How am I supposed to figure out how to be without you when that’s all I’ve been for thirteen years? We’ve known each other since we were six, Louis, for fuck’s sakes - ”  
  
“Harry,” Niall warns, crawling down from his bunk and kneeling by Harry’s shaking form on the edge of his bed. Harry ignores him, unable to see anything. He wants to be with Louis. He wills himself to be with Louis.  
  
Louis reels himself in, “I love you, Harry. I want the best for you.”  
  
“This isn’t the best for me!” Harry shrieks, taking the phone and chucking at the wall. When he realizes what he’s done, he stumbles over to it and cradles it to his ear, still crouched on the floor. “Lou? Louis? Hello?”  
  
He can feel Niall hovering somewhere around his shoulder. His hand is heavy on Harry’s back. “Harry.”  
  
“Fuck,” Harry lets out a big, shuddering cry. “It’s over. He’s ended it.”  
  
-  
  
Harry lies in bed for several days straight, re-reading old text messages like a pathetic sap and eating whatever Niall had left in their shared mini fridge. Harry knows he’s making things stilted and awkward, being the general mess that he is, so much so that even  Liam tries to coax him out of bed once or twice, all while, running fingers nervously along his Brooks Brother’s shirt. Harry had shrugged him off, not seeing how a shower or an actual meal could make Louis change his mind.  He skims through his Facebook back to the pictures from when they were in college, wishing he could disappear into them.  
  
He deletes his Facebook but saves a picture of Louis and him to his computer, one from last summer when they both needed haircuts and couldn’t be bothered to put shoes on. That’d been the summer before their first year at uni, both in love and convinced they were going to take on the world together.  
  
At night he tries to keep quiet, but it feels as if there is shards of glass lodged in his throat and chest, twisted slowly.  Love must be an open wound.  
  
-  
  
On the third day, Niall takes a break from his Bio midterm review, pulling off his endearing black rimmed glasses and demanding Harry to go out with him to a proper uni party. Harry has always had trouble denying Niall. Their relationship is both affectionate and attentive. He harbors Harry’s hurt like it’s his own.  
  
Niall doesn’t even complain when Harry falls into bed with him, even though Harry has octopus limbs and demands a cuddle, reeking of cheap beer and cologne. He falls asleep with Niall running a hand through his hair, needlessly grateful for his friendship, and knowing, deep down, that they still don’t even hold a candle to the fire that Louis is.  
  
-  
  
It comes in waves after that.  
  
Before, when Harry was anxious for a big test or restless during an all nighter, he would pull on one of Louis’ jumpers, usually the oldest one that still smelt like home, and press his face into the collar. It’s particularly ironic and a little pathetic that he does the same now, but this time because he wakes up with an empty stomach and the knowledge that the most important person isn’t in his life anymore.  
  
The sleeves are too short for him now and have been for a while now, but he folds them up to his elbows and presses his nose to his bicep. It brings him back to when he was seventeen and trying to finish school, walking home during Autumn on his way to Louis’ house.  
  
Niall notices more so than Liam, who is usually down in the Newspaper room or with his nose buried in his collage journals he’s always making but never lets anyone see.  
  
“It’ll help you move on if you stop dwelling on him. Thinking about what’s out there - _who’s_ out there,” Niall suggests gently, and with a wave of his hand gestures to the door of their dorm that led out into the hall. Harry stares at it like it’s threatening him.  
  
He shrugs, already tired of the conversation he'd had with himself a hundred times before. “You know, his mum used to say we shared one soul. It’s not just like I got dumped. It literally feels like I’ve been torn in two. Everything memory - every thing I’ve ever done was in part with Louis. Even being in New York. I’m fucked, Ni.”  
  
Niall whistles, “Pretty fucked. I know I could never understand. I just wish,” Niall scratches the back of his neck, “you were, you know, happier.”  
  
Harry nods soberly. “I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be sorry,” Niall murmurs softly with a shake his head, and when Harry crawls up his bunk later to cry, Niall doesn’t say a word.  
  
-  
  
He does something stupid. He’s not even drunk, just sleep deprived with a  heart heavy.  
  
The dorms are quiet for a Thursday. Liam is suspiciously gone for a third consecutive night, evidently working tirelessly with Danielle, a co-editor for the student newspaper. It’s dark in their room and Harry can hear his own breathing when he climbs the ladder to Niall’s bunk. He sidles down next to him, and Niall turns around slowly, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.  
  
“Harry?” he asks, his voice muffled with sleep.  
  
“Hi,” Harry says, and then he’s unsure of why he’s even up here.  
  
“Are you okay?” Niall asks, because he’s a friend and a good one at that and his accent sounds really fucking nice when he’s all sleepy. So Harry kisses him.  
  
He’s never, as embarrassing as it sounds - kissed anyone besides Louis, and Harry wonders if this is his first kiss; at least with someone else who wasn’t Louis and who didn’t smell like Louis or touch like Louis or taste like Louis -  
  
Niall doesn’t push away, but he doesn’t rush Harry either. He’s calmer, softer, so Harry presses Niall into his mattress, chasing away the taste of tiredness inside of Niall’s mouth. Niall is pliant and easy with it, and when Harry bites at his lip he whimpers, and Harry thinks, _yeah, this feels good_. He isn’t lying to himself. This isn’t a bad idea. He feels like he’s cheating on Louis, even though he’s not. He’s tired of being this fucked up.  
  
His heart is beating like a train speeding ahead on a rickety railroad, and his gut swooshes and swerves when his hands ruck underneath Niall’s sleeping shirt, pressing his fingers into his pale skin.  
  
-  
  
The next morning, Liam is staring down at Harry, his mouth fixed in a tired grimace.  Liam wears clothes worth half of Harry’s tuition, probably, and yet has no idea how to properly take care of himself. He studies and stresses about his grades, his appearance, his father; forgetting to eat or sleep enough.  
  
Harry realizes he’s in his own bed, and his mouth feels full of salt.  
  
“What?” he shifts, his shoulders aching, and after getting a glimpse of his alarm he realizes he’s slept once again through his morning class.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing?” Liam asks, his voice low and condescending. Harry looks around blankly.  
  
“Er, sleeping?”  
  
“No,” Liam shakes his head. “What do you think you’re doing?”  
  
Harry sits up abruptly, gripping the edges of his mattress before pulling a shirt on and running a hand through his hair. He doesn’t want to look at his roommate at the moment - Liam can see through fabrications and Harry’s eyes have always been windows into his soul, anyway. It’s really what Louis liked best of him. He always thought Harry had beautiful eyes. Harry thought Louis had beautiful everything -  
  
“I don’t. I don’t know what you’re on about. I’m starved, though. Think they still have those grilled chicken sandwiches down at the student union?” he rambles, even though he’s not hungry because the thought of what he did last night makes him want to dry heave.  
  
“God, Harry,” Liam sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “We know how fucking awful this is, but you can’t mess with other people - Niall is your friend, and you’re being an asshole,” Liam says pointedly.  
  
“I don’t know what Niall told you, but - nothing happened,” he feels his cheeks heat and he knows soon the flush spreads to his neck and ears.  
  
“Niall didn’t need to say anything - I saw you two this morning. I don’t know what kind of - _shit_ \- you’re going through, but. Don’t. Don’t hurt Niall,” Liam scolds, and the curse word sounds strange and foreign in his mouth.  
  
“Liam - look, I understand, but is it really your business?” Harry defends himself, pulling on a pair of sweats. He feels that if he’s going to have a dignified argument, he shouldn’t be starkers from the waist down.  
  
“When it comes to living with you both, yes, it is. We all see that you’re hurting, and we love Louis too, but don’t do this. You’ll mess it up and - “  
  
“ - yeah, cause I just mess everything fucking up, don’t I?” Harry barks. It’s too early and he’s emotional. He turns swiftly away from Liam, who falters in his argument when he hears the break in Harry’s voice. But Harry doesn’t want pity, least of all from Liam. “Look, can I just - have some time?”  
  
“Harry, promise me you’ll - “  
  
“I won’t fucking do anything, okay? I fucking promise, now really, just - ” Harry turns around briefly, his eyes swimming and gestures weakly to do the door. Liam look like he might reprimand him again, but instead picks his bookbag off the ground and says nothing. He knows a dismissal when he sees one.  
  
-  
  
By late afternoon, Harry’s properly starved, which is why he’s grateful that Niall stops in between his classes with Subway in tow. His glasses keep falling down the bridge of his skinny, straight nose, and his hair is windswept and angled in a different direction. He looks like someone’s endearingly cute boyfriend.  
  
Harry allows himself briefly to wonder what it’d be like if it were he and Niall who were together - if he had gone to uni and met him and fell in love properly, like all his peers do, instead of carrying around this Louis sized hole and falling inside the black abyss inside his brain.  
  
“Hey,” Niall says softly, sitting on the edge of Harry’s bed. Harry tries to smile, but it fails horribly and he just looks pathetic.  
  
“Thank you - I was famished,” he says when Niall passes him a sandwich. It’s his favorite order, down to the mayo and banana peppers.  
  
“Thought you might be starving. You slept through the whole day, mate,” Niall shrugs, tip toeing off his Nikes and sitting cross legged, digging into his own meal. There’s a random freckle on his chin that Harry has the urge to touch. So he does, tilting Niall’s face up, and he realizes a second too late what it looks like.  
  
He pulls away in an awkward, stumbling rush.  He’s never had a friends-with-benefits or a fuck buddy or a random hook-up and he’s not really exposed to the complications that come with fucking around with your friends. He doesn’t like the guilt Liam permeated in him, either, and as much as he wants to forget that it ever happened, Niall doesn’t deserve that. Harry knows how it feels to be abandoned.  
  
“I’m sorry for - last night,” Harry says, looking down. “It wasn’t bad. It was amazing but - yeah. I’m sorry.”  
  
There’s a brief pause, before Niall asks, “why are you sorry?”  
  
Harry is confused, and he picks at his bread, “For having sex with you? For using you as a rebound? It was dickish.”  
  
Niall chuckles, but it sounds flat and strained to his ears. “It involves dicks, yeah.”  
  
Harry flicks him in his skinny thigh. “Don’t take the piss. I’m trying to apologize. I hope you don’t think that I want like… to be with you. Shit, that’s not what I meant either. I’m just - .”  
  
“Harry,” Niall enunciates slowly, like he’s conversing with a stupid person. “I know. You’re acting like a tit. You don’t have to explain to me how a hook up works.”  
  
“Well, I am sorry,” Harry is slightly nonplussed by Niall’s lack of reaction. He does feel really shitty. “I didn’t mean to.”  
  
“You never slept with some besides Lou, have you?”  
  
Harry shakes his head.  
  
Niall smiles, but it looks a little sad. “I didn’t think so. Look, I’m not ignorant to you and Louis’ history. It just happened. We don’t have to make a fuss of it.”  
  
“Ni,” Harry groans, a dull wave of pain washing over his entire body. It’s hard when other people bring up Louis, too. “Are you sure that’s how you feel? You’re not - trying to protect me?”  
  
Niall doesn’t respond at first, and Harry knows the answer but can’t even bring himself to say it in his head. He shrugs, taking a bite out of his sandwich for something to do, trying to push thoughts of Niall naked and spread out beneath him. He hadn’t lied. It was good.  
  
“No, Haz,” Niall says finally, his voice lower than before. He shakes his head. “This is the honest truth. You and me, we’re fine. Right?”  
  
“You’re really not mad?” Harry asks, just to be sure. He used to see his sister do this: she’d assure Harry she wasn’t cross but throw it in his face later. Harry doesn’t know if he could handle Niall holding a grudge against him.  
  
“No, I’m not. Jesus, how many times do I have to say it?”  
  
“I’m just - Liam said - ”  
  
“Liam is one of my best mates, not my mum,” Niall eyes him for a second, and Harry feels like a complete and utter tool. “Like he’s any one to talk, given what happened with him and Zayn - look, stop being a twat before I smack you, alright?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry nods, and he can’t help but pull Niall into a hug, fuck their sandwiches, “I will.”  
  
-  
  
Christmas sneaks up on him. It’s with panic and dread that Harry realizes he’s expected back home. Rightfully, he fears it, because going home is unearthing all his memories of Louis and everything he’s tried really hard to forget. Just the thought of running into him in their old neighborhood sends him shivering with hope, which he fears above all else.  
  
Since his moping and obsessive Facebook stalking days are over, his grades have improved. Liam once or twice even invites Harry to study with him as a thinly disguised olive branch between them. Harry knows if he weren’t so distracted having his own crisis he would have been more intune with Liam. They hadn’t truly talked about what happened last Spring.  
  
It’s difficult bringing Zayn up to Liam, who looks like a wounded puppy every time he’s mentioned. Liam was raised with the choice between a belt and a switch. He’s quiet and severe, and he’s strict with everyone, most of all himself. Louis and he were close, and sometimes looking at Liam just reminds him of Louis, which is self centered and arbitrary; Harry can’t help it.    
  
At Laguardia they embrace in front of security, Harry wants to sink into the warm expanse of Liam’s chest, safe and hidden. Niall shoulders both their duffels. It was decided the previous week that he’d spend Holiday with Harry, after  finding him drinking confiscated vodka and watching his favorite Friends episodes. Harry couldn’t even find the energy to tell Niall how much he feared seeing Louis again, but he didn’t have to. Niall understood.  
  
Niall’s parents are in Bora Bora visiting his brother Greg, anyway, and Harry’s too selfish to spare him.  
  
-  
  
His childhood home smells exactly the same when they return to Doncaster, and Harry knows already it’s going to be a long, miserable holiday.  
  
“Oh,” Anne says, surprised. His mother recovers quickly, welcoming both into her arm. “I’m so happy to see you, pumpkin…”  
  
Gemma’s sitting at the breakfast table  nursing a glass of wine. She salutes Harry before taking a rather generous gulp.  
  
Anne tries again, and when she passes Harry he gets a strong whiff of Pinot Noir. “So, you must be...”  
  
“Niall,” Niall flushes and sticks his hand out, and Harry’s mum pulls him into a hug instead. Niall flusters a bit and he is noticeably redder when she pulls away. Everything feels awkward, and Harry doesn’t know if it’s him that’s causing it. They’re still carrying all of their luggage.  
  
“We’re so happy to have you here, Niall,” his mother fawns, “I was so distraught since he and Louis had a falling out that he wouldn’t find anyone else, and you know as a mum I worry about him being so far away -”  
  
The familiar spike of suppressed rage he used to feel every time his mum opened her mouth rises inside of him, and just the idea of her being able to move on so quickly to the idea that Niall is his new boyfriend when Harry is literally struggling to live day to day without Louis makes him seethe.  
  
“Mum,” Harry mutters awkwardly. “Niall’s just my _friend_. Not my boyfriend.”  
  
“I - oh dear,” Anne smiles nervously, slapping her forehead. “Goodness, forgive me, always eating my words, Gemma, dear, get me a glass of wine -”  
  
“It’s alright,” Niall shakes it off, but he doesn't meet Harry’s pointed gaze “Bound to happen.”  
  
-  
  
Dinner is tense and quiet, Harry silently over chewing his food and scraping his knife against the plate. It’s difficult for him to focus on his mum and his sister’s idle chatter when there are pictures of him and Louis all over the house. In the reception room Harry can clearly see the piano Louis use to play during the holidays, and he knows without having to look that Louis’ favorite mug is inside the cupboard, with a chip in the rim.  
  
“So did mum tell you?” Gemma’s voice interrupts Harry’s sulking, swirling her wine and looking at him smugly. Harry waits for her to continue, knowing his sister’s tricks. She just wants attention.  
  
“No, tell me what?” Harry asks, at the same time his Mum warns, “Gemma,” like this _isn't_ the time.  
  
Harry kind of figures it can't be good if his sister’s got that look in her eye. She’s always enjoyed shit hitting the fan too much.  
  
“What, Gemma?” Harry asks again, pointedly.  
  
“Louis’ moved to Florida,” she informs the table, and Harry thinks there might even be a smile on his sister’s fucking face.  
  
“Okay,” Harry swallows thickly, the questions of why the fuck and who the fuck wants to go to Florida anyway running through his head, the beginnings of a headache starting. It strange and discomforting that a few months ago he would have known everything about Louis’ life and his decisions, and now he’s been left out of it all. He chooses his next words carefully,  “Good for him.”  
  
“Not only that,” Gemma says, and Anne tenses visibly next to her, bracing herself. “Louis’ _engaged_. Can you believe that? Engaged?”  
  
Harry goes rigid. He feels like his stomach has dropped out through his ass and his heart is stuck somewhere in his throat, choking on pure air and his brain hurts, setting off little red alarms all over his body. Surely this can’t be true. No - it isn’t true. _No_.  
  
“You couldn’t wait until after dinner, Gemma?” Anne reprimands, and Harry pushes his chair away from the table, throwing his napkin down and excusing himself from dinner. Niall sits awkwardly with his hands folded, like one can only do when he’s a guest during a family argument, his eyes darting nervously between Harry’s retreating form and Gemma’s twisted sense of self-satisfaction.  
  
-  
  
Niall finds him up in his childhood room. The lights are off and Harry’s wearing his pajamas from his college days, curled up underneath his quilt. He feels like he’s aged a thousand years, his muscles stiff and tense.  
  
“Hey,” Niall says in a whisper. He changes into his pajamas quickly, his hands smelling like dish soap as he climbs into bed. Vaguely Harry feels bad for abandoning Niall like that, but he just couldn’t sit there any longer and he can’t even think about Louis and Louis being engaged, because it aches like something he’s never quite felt before - the beginnings of a migraine forming in the front of his brain.  
  
He wants to ask a million questions, mostly starting off with _how the fuck did this happen_ , but right now he won’t. It’s too painful, too real.  
  
By the time Niall’s truly settled, Harry is attacking his mouth, kissing him and biting at his mouth and trying to feel something that isn’t anguish; his hands go straight for Niall’s shirt because this is easier, this doesn’t hurt. Niall is beautiful and passive and he lets Harry touch him. Harry wishes he could fall in love with Niall instead - wishes, that for a moment his mum thought they were together, Harry wouldn’t have to correct her.  
  
Finally, Niall pulls away, flushed nicely and panting. Harry presses for more only to get a hand pushed over his mouth, giving him pause, and Niall’s bright blue eyes look wide and honest without his glasses as he looks at Harry. His cheeks are flushed.  
  
“Using me won’t help you feel better, Harry,” Niall chastises, but his voice is gentle.  
  
Harry wants to say something, anything, but all that comes out his mouth is this kind of dry sob. He wishes he could tell Niall that his feelings are genuine and he does want Niall, but it isn’t true. He thinks of Liam’s reprimand, his anger, thinks of Niall’s pliant, willing mouth, and because he can’t help himself he thinks of Louis, bright and sharp in his memory.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry cries, and Niall curls his hands around Harry’s neck and presses him in close. Niall’s cheek comes to rest on the top of Harry’s curls, and his tears are absorbed by his skin. “I don’t know how any of this happened. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”  
  
“Harry,” Niall sighs, but he doesn’t say anything else. Harry’s crying subsides to hiccups later rather than sooner, and he’ll feel ashamed of himself for it tomorrow; right now he just needs Niall to hold him.  
  
“I love him so much I feel like I might break. I don’t know - why doesn’t he want me anymore?” Harry asks, knowing Niall can’t give him an answer. “Why aren’t I good enough for him?”  
  
“Those are the wrong questions to ask, love. This isn’t doing you any good. We need to sleep. We’ll sort ourselves in the morning, yeah?” Niall whispers, and Harry agrees, falling asleep to the sound Niall’s heartbeat and the way his chest rises and falls.  
  
This is the bed was where Louis and Harry use to curl up, the place where Louis and Harry explored each other for the first time when they were barely just sixteen, where Louis and Harry would place plastic stars on the ceiling and Louis would pretend to point up at the constellations, pausing only to tickle Harry into peals of delighted laughter.  
  
More than once Harry wished he had found Niall first, that they had fallen in love instead. It’d be a lot less painful, a lot less complicated, and Harry would be able to fall asleep at night without wishing there that familiar voice lulling him into his dreams.  
  
-  
  
Because Harry is a stupid, self-pitying fuck, he restarts his Facebook and looks Louis up.  
  
Here it is, what Gemma was saying exactly. Louis’ wall is all about the wedding preparations and moving to Florida and little of much else. It doesn’t sound like him at all, but someone removed and phony. Harry looks through his albums until he finds his most recent one, and he’s not sure what he was expecting, but it isn’t this.  
  
He had hoped, in a sick way, that the boy Louis is engaged to would be a Harry cutout - same hair and dimples, maybe around his height, good looking but not exactly handsome. Maybe Louis had settled from someone the opposite of Harry, though - maybe he was blonde and blue eyed and ruggedly individual, maybe he was a engineer or a scientist or something else boring.  
  
Of all the possibilities that ran through Harry’s head, he didn’t expect middle aged, tan, and dripping with wealth. With Louis at twenty, this man is nearly twenty-five years older, and there are pictures of them everywhere: warm beaches in Maui and Los Angeles, at a Ski Resort in Denver, with the girls at an orange orchard in Florida. Harry gets a good look of their new home too, as they’ve posed cutely outside of it all dressed in white for what looks like a Christmas card. The house is huge and impressive and so utterly not Louis that Harry feels like he’s staring at a strange, not someone he spent nearly his entire life with.  
  
The girls are as beautiful as ever. Harry misses them something horrible.  
  
The earliest photos of him and his fiance are dated before he broke up with Harry, and perhaps the dishonestly the worst of it. Harry pictured Louis in Doncaster when he had called and broke it off; really he’d been in San Francisco, probably between dinner engagements and trips to the Aquarium. Like it was nothing. Like Harry meant nothing to him.  
  
-  
  
It should be obvious that he’s a sucker for pain because when he finds Lottie’s phone number in his contacts, he doesn’t hesitate to give her a call. He almost hangs up the first time, and then prays that the line has been disconnected -  
  
“Hello?” her voice is airy and young and achingly familiar. “Hello?”  
  
“Hey! Lottie! It’s Harry,” his voice shakes, but he layers on the bravado, his knee tapping nervously.  
  
“Harry? Is that you? I can’t - I’m so happy you called. I’ve missed you loads. How are you? Did you miss me?”  
  
“Of course I missed you, Lottie,” he sighs, unable to keep the smile from his mouth, “Listen, tell me how you are, what’s been going on? I feel like I haven’t see you in ages, tater tot. Give the girls my love, too.”  
  
They talk for what seems like hours. It hurts, but Harry is addicted to everything she says, even though it feels like he’s rubbing salt into all his wounds. Lottie is like his little sister, but sometimes she says things in such a Louis’ manner that Harry can’t help but cringe.  
  
-  
  
Lottie calls Harry even few weeks, talking about day to day things, the girls, and of course, her brother.  
  
Harry’s learned a lot from the snippets that Lottie’s given him, some of them intentional and some not. He’s learned that Louis met his fiancé in London one day and apparently fallen deeply in love. His name is Robert, and he’s an American who owned orange tree farms in parts of South America. Lottie described him as ‘nice’, - constantly showering Louis and the girls with expensive things: horseback lessons, their own bedrooms, beach trips nearly every weekend.  
  
Lottie confesses how much she misses her mum, and Harry is reminded how young she really is. Daisy and Phoebe are a lot more vocal about it than she is. She knows how much Louis tries to be enough, but Lottie also knows that he’s tired. Lottie’s a smart girl for twelve, Harry thinks.  
  
“It’s not my same brother without you here though, you two were always attached to the hip,” Lottie says one day, like she specifically knew how to take the knife in Harry’s heart and twist it. "I miss you two being together. I miss that Louis."  
  
 _Me too_ , he thinks. Harry is starting realize that this is real, though. No more pretending. Louis has moved on and is getting married and he’s going to be okay. Harry just has to accept that and stop feeling sorry for himself.  
  
-  
  
It’s the last day of spring term when Lottie calls him. She sounds off, like she used to when they were playing too rough and she’d end up getting hurt but pretend she wasn’t, her voice heavy with the weight of the tears she would refuse to let fall. Lottie nearly never cried as a child.  
  
“Lottie, what’s wrong? You okay?”  
  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call - ” she says, talking in a hushed, stilted sort of way like she’s trying to keep quiet. The hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand up as he cradles his mobile, listening to her breathe.  
  
“Slow down, what happened? Are you okay? Are the girls okay? What about Louis?”  
  
“Robert and Louis got into a fight, and it was really awful, they started arguing and then - there was a thump and it’s all quiet and I don't know if Robert’s left and Daisy is crying and I don’t know what to do, Harry. I don’t - “  
  
“Hey, calm down. Look, I might be a while but I’m coming right there, I promise, okay? Everything is going to be - fine. Lottie, repeat after me: Everything's gonna be okay.”  
  
“Everything’s gonna be okay,” she says quietly, and shudders after a moment before whispering, “Please hurry.”  
  
Harry’s never moved so quickly before, throwing a punch of clothes in a bag and hurrying out of his dorm, blood rushing in his ears, already on the phone with Liam to negotiate borrowing his car, and - all he can think of is the next sixteen hours he’ll spend driving down the interstate. All he can think of is seeing Louis again.  
  
-  
  
Liam gives him the keys to one of his family’s cars that they never use, and Harry eyes it precariously because he’s not explicitly driven in the states before. He doesn’t say anything though. Liam says he’ll try and see if he can get a hold of Zayn, and that Harry can probably stay with him while he’s done there. Harry doesn’t ask, but he’s grateful. He’s missed Zayn this year. Under better circumstances, he’d be excited to see him again.  
  
Niall catches him while he’s just throwing his bag in the passenger seat, his face hot from the humid swelter of a June afternoon in New York. “You sure about this, Harry?”  
  
Harry nods, already distracted and distant from anything but the situation at hand. “Yeah. Yes. I’ve got to go, Ni. I’ve got -”  
  
“This isn’t time for you to play hero, Haz,” Niall warns, and Harry wants to throttle him for cheapening what he’s trying to do - because Niall’s always seen people for who they are, and Harry is open like a fucking book.  
  
“I’m not. I just. I need to do this,” Harry protests, gripping the steering wheel. Niall throws a wad of cash at Harry and grimaces, his hands unclenching from the door as Harry starts up the car. It rumbles to life after a second, and his brain is already a million miles away.  
  
“You call me when you get there. And you come straight home, okay? No more heartbreak, Styles. I mean it,” Niall orders.  
  
A strange, hysterical laugh erupts from Harry. “Yes, mum,” he smiles, before pulling away from the curb and finding the first exit onto the highway. New York disappears behind him, until it’s not but roads and traffic.  
  
-  
  
The drive is just under seventeen hours even with his speeding. He thinks of little else but Louis and the possibilities that await him in Florida; Lottie had called again while Harry was filling up the gas tank, sending him the address and another plea to hurry. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell her he was already pushing his luck on time.  
  
  
-  
  
Florida is sunny and sweltering and Harry immediately hates it.  
  
Louis’ new home is larger than the pictures on Facebook, and Harry feels grungy and on edge as he stands outside in the morning sunlight. He hasn’t slept or bathed or really even eaten since he left New York, and his heart is hammering in his chest as he rings the doorbell, shoots Lottie text after text and receiving no answer.  
  
The door opens and Harry’s met with Louis.  
  
He looks different, but not really. Just like an upgraded version of Louis. He’s a lot more tanned than Harry’s ever seen him, his hair is swept up and stiff; he’s dressed in immaculate cream colored clothing; radiating perfection and wealth.  The mischievous glint to  his half-mooned eyes is completely absent. He’s literally speechless, staring at Harry with his mouth parted in surprise.  
  
Harry takes a deep gulp of wet air and dives into explanation, “Lottie called me last night. She was, um, pretty upset. Said you and your _fiancé_ were fighting.”  
  
Louis doesn't’ say anything, doesn’t move. Harry wonders if he’s even breathing, and a wave of annoyance makes his shoulders taut with tension. He rubs the back of his neck in a frustrating manner. “Look, she asked me to come down here, okay? I didn’t - she was crying and Lottie, you know, I can’t say no. So here I am. And you look fine. So I’ll be going.”  
  
He turns on his heel, but nearly topples over in surprise when he hears Louis call out, “Wait!”  
  
Harry looks back, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Seeing Louis here is like reopening a wound.  
  
Louis looks like he didn’t even realize he said anything, and he’s flustered. “Um, come in, let me get you something to eat - “  
  
“I don’t -” Harry refutes, because the last place he wants to be is inside Louis and Robert’s home.  
  
“No, really,” Louis has this look in his eye when he’s not going to take no for an answer. Harry wonders if he’ll ever forget these things. “Please.”  
  
Naturally, it’s the small _please_ that does it. Louis never used to ask like that - never talked to him like he had anything but the upper hand. Harry nods, biting his lip and nearly drawing blood, before following Louis inside.  
  
-  
  
The house inside is just as impressive. It’s clean, white, and orderly; nothing is out of place except for Harry in his black Ramones t-shirt and greasy hair. Louis leads him out to a veranda in the back, which overlooks a large pool and various pool toys. He comes back a second later with a bowl of fresh fruit and a cup of orange juice.  
  
“Where’s Lottie?” Harry asks, his voice unnecessarily gruff, his eyes still fixated on the toys.  
  
“School. She doesn’t get out until next week,” Louis sits down gingerly, fingers gripping the handles of the chair. “I’m sorry that she called. I’ll talk with her.”  
  
“She sounded really upset,” Harry says pointedly, raising his eyebrows at Louis. “Like, _properly_ upset. What happened?”  
  
“What? Nothing. Nothing happened. I don’t know why she called.”  
  
“Really,” Harry drawls, and he wants throw the fruit and the orange juice against the clean glass table; he’d like to see it shatter, he’d like to remember what Louis’ face looked like when he was devastated. “She told you me you and your fiancé were in a fight. She was crying, Lou.”  
  
He throws Louis’ childhood nickname out there like it’s meant to hurt. Judging by Louis’ expression, the flicker of despair that shines on face for a brief second - it does. Harry doesn’t understand why he’s so angry, except that he suddenly is, and he feels out of control, like he’s seconds away from being incredibly violent.  
  
“I - we. Is that why you really came down here? Because some little girl cried and you were on your gallant horse to save the day?” Louis surmises tersely, and Harry gapes for a second. He’s nearly forgotten how utterly malicious Louis can be when he feels like he’s being backed into a corner.  
  
So there was truth to Lottie’s call, if Louis’ being defensive - and this fuels Harry more.  
  
“That ‘little girl’ is your sister, Louis, or have you sold your soul for all this - “ he gestures to the estate around them, the pool and terrace and the excessive mansion, the rows and rows of perfectly lined orange trees that go on for miles. “fucking shit?”  
  
“Don’t talk about what you don’t know,” Louis says coldly, unblinking, and Harry stands up abruptly, nearly knocking his chair to the ground.  
  
“Yeah, whose fault is that? Thirteen years of being best mates, Louis, four years of being together - and one phone call, it’s all over. How am I suddenly just a _fucking_ stranger to you?” Harry realizes belatedly that he’s yelling. Louis stays seated as if he’s trying to remain diminutive.  
  
There’s no rebuttal, which is a first. Louis stays quiet, his shoulders hunched and defensive.  
  
“ _So_?” Harry prods. “Who's fucking fault is that, then? Lottie is like my sister, you fucking prat, and she calls me, crying - what the fuck am I supposed to do? ‘Oh, sorry Charlotte, your brother decided he’d rather be with some twat, ta!’ Really, Lou? What do you expect me to do?”  
  
“Don’t - don’t call him a ‘twat’ - “ Louis protests, and Harry throws his hands up in the hair, ready to punch the side of this perfect, immaculate house.  
  
“What the fuck do you think this looks like, Lou? You’re a _kept_ fucking boy. I don’t even know why - fuck. I don’t even know you anymore,” Harry mutters, and Louis looks like he’s about to cry. He’s unnaturally still in his chair.  
  
“I’m sorry you drove all the way down here. You may show yourself out,” Louis mutters, chin tucked to his chest.  
  
Harry runs a hand through his hair, the fight draining out of him. And because he might never get another opportunity, because it’s ninety five fucking degrees at nine in the morning, “Just tell me why, Louis. Just, I need to know why I wasn’t good enough for you anymore. Tell me why, and I’ll leave you alone forever.”  
  
“Harry,” Louis looks up, startled. “You were never - you were always good enough for me. You never stopped.”  
  
“Then why?” Harry can feel his brows knit together, the stress building in chest. “Why? What does Robert have that I don’t?” he gestures wildly again at the orchards of orange trees. “Money?”  
  
The silence is all the answer he needs.  
  
-  
  
Louis follows him back into the house as Harry storms past, trying to hide rimmed red eyes. He’s so fucking tired. He needs to sleep. He needs a decent breakfast and to get the fuck out of Florida as quickly as he can.  
  
“Harry - I,” Louis starts, but for the second time, he’s lost for words. Harry can’t even look at him anymore. He’s nothing like the boy he grew up with; fell in love with.  
  
“No, Lou,” Harry croaks sadly. “No.”  
  
“Listen,” Louis pleads as he and Harry stand in the foyer. “Listen why, please, I’ll explain. You can hate me, you probably will anyway but please, just…” Harry turns around slowly, rubbing his twitching eyelid and crossing his arms.  
  
Louis sighs. “We, um, after you went to school, we started to run out of money. All the savings mum had went to her funeral and her leftover debt and...there was nothing left. My job wasn’t cutting it, and I had to drop out of part time school, and they took our house away. The took my mum’s home away, Harry. We were bouncing for shelter to shelter and the courts said if I couldn’t hold a steady home they were going to take my girls away.  
  
“I couldn’t...I couldn’t lose them too. I met Robert one day while I was looking for work, and he just, he was so kind. He took me out to dinner, and I explained to him my situation, and he just promised to take care of me. I didn’t realize what he meant at the time. And when I figured it out, he had already bailed me out of debt and I couldn’t. I was so scared I was going to lose them, Haz. You’ve got to understand that I had to make a choice.”  
  
Harry didn’t think he could feel possibly worse than this morning, dead tired and starving, but he shouldn’t think in absolutes anymore. His gut lurches and he has the strong urge to wrap Louis in his arms, hold him and tell him it’ll be alright. He wants to shake Louis, strangle him for being so stupid and so trusting and so fucking naive, because there’s no way Harry can come in and sweep him off his feet anymore. Harry feels his breath caught in his throat.  
  
Louis isn’t crying and he looks at Harry solemnly, waiting for the final blow; Harry’s parting word. Instead, Harry pushes past his anger and gives in. He’s known all along he’s gone for this boy until the end of time.  
  
Louis is butter soft and gentle but he doesn’t smell like himself anymore. He’s cleaner and perfect and pretty; he’s not the boy with dirt on his knees, wearing a wicked grin that seemed to coerce Harry into anything. He’s not that boy anymore, he realizes, and it feels like swallowing grief whole. Louis sighs into their embrace, and Harry wonders when the last time he was held like this.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Louis whispers, and Harry grips tighter.  
  
-  
  
“Don’t go far,” Louis asks, closing his eyes like he immediately regrets his admission. There’s a rare breeze that wafts between them, ruffling Louis’ fringe.  
  
“I,” Harry starts, but he falls silent. Louis’ thumb brushes at the delicate skin on the inside of Harry’s wrist before stepping back and swallowing audibly.  
  
Harry turns around and doesn’t look back, because he knows if he did, he'd never leave.  
  
-  
  
On the opposite side of Miami, Zayn lives in a villa not far from the ocean, situated above a tiny Cuban restaurant that’s bustling with color. Several of Zayn’s cousins play half naked in the street with the hose. Harry finds Zayn sitting outside wearing an apron and smoking a cigarette, feet propped up on an empty milk crate.  
  
“Harry!” he flicks the butt and hugs Harry gingerly, smelling like black beans and tobacco and the red sun. “You look dead on your feet. Liam says you’re down here for what - the summer?”  
  
“Er, I suppose,” Harry agrees lifelessly. He should probably give more thought to spending three months in this monstrous weather before he says anything, but he can’t be bothered. “Yeah, I guess so, if you’ll have me.”  
  
“Course, man. Look, you can even work with Maria in the kitchen. She could use an extra hand.”  
  
“Yeah, you don’t mind?” Harry raises his eyebrows.  
  
Zayn scoffs, cuffing Harry’s shoulder and guiding him up a narrow staircase in the back, the walls defaced with multi-colored, tiny painted handprints. The noises of a bustling restaurant sound below them, as Zayn shows him his tiny living space: a mattress on painted wooden floors, long rectangular windows thrown open to welcome the ocean air below. It’s beautiful and authentic, but all Harry can think about is the bed.  
  
“Looks like you need a respite. I’ll have Maria send you up something later. See you tonight, hombre?” Zayn pats his shoulders again, exiting towards the staircase before turning around again. “Haz? Alright?”  
  
“Um,” Harry doesn’t want to lie to Zayn, but he’s the farthest thing away from alright: dirty with travel grime and old tears, frustration settling low in his gut and resentfulness ballooning underneath his skin as the minutes pass by. “Should be. After a shower and a nap.”  
  
Zayn grins, but it’s slight and faltering. The drama from last year resulting in Zayn’s absence in New York hangs heavy between them, and Harry knows he should say something - anything, probably, but his mind draws a blank. Zayn’s mouth is full of glass even at the best of times: his tongue cuts. This makes Harry miss him even more, despite the fact that he’s standing right in front of him.  
  
-  
  
Lottie texts him just after dusk. Harry’d been steadily working through a pack of cigarettes Zayn had pityingly given him after Harry had reiterated his plight after dinner, which was pollo con arroz dipped in a lima sauce, nearly too hot for his english bred mouth. Maria laughed at him when his cheeks turned bright pink.  
  
Maria is Zayn’s aunt by marriage. She originated from Cuba thirty years ago and married a Pakistani man and together they bought this restaurant and made it their home. Harry is struck by her stout body and mouthy passion and pretty, freckled skin. She barely came to Harry’s chest, but Harry knew right away it was best to obey her. Zayn’s uncle died ten years before, and they did not speak his name out loud.  
  
The first text message jolted him out of the reverie: _Harry u didn’t leave did u ?_  
  
He had replied simply with a, _No. Are you okay?_  
  
It was twenty minutes and he had burned through another death stick when she buzzed him again. _Where are u staying?_  
  
He texted her the address, but received no other response. Sighing, he flicked his cigarette, watching the burning embers disintegrate before his very eyes.  
  
He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing here; Louis obviously made his choice, and it isn’t Harry. It isn’t Harry and no matter how much Harry loves him, it isn’t enough anymore. Louis has a family to look after. In a way, Harry has always admired Louis’ resourcefulness. Even when they were children Louis would figure out how to make a tree house using leftover supplies and a few rusty nails. It hadn’t been beautiful, and it had taken a lot of sweat and dirt, and a little blood on Louis’ side, but being up in that tree house all summer when they were nine had been like looking into a different world. Louis had always been ace at making believe.  
  
All these memories: of his childhood, of Louis, of summers rolling around in the dirt and Christmas Eve snuggling in the living room waiting for St. Nick to fill their shoes with candy, of seeing Daisy and Phoebe opening their eyes for the first time and looking at him, of having his first kiss in his mother’s kitchen one night before year ten; it all swirls together like this great big pool of overwhelming grief. In losing Louis, Harry feels like he’s lost half his history. He mourns in silence, listening to the lull of the ocean as the tide sneaks up; he imagines it leaving nothing but wet sand in it’s wake.  
  
-  
  
Harry watches Louis climb out of a shiny silver Mercedes, closing the door quietly as he parks in the street. A cat scatters in the alleyway and Louis spook it. He’s starting with his fourth cigarette, his throat sore from sucking smoke and trying to drown himself in it as he leans on the tiny balcony railing. Zayn is still out on the town. He left earlier with a fake ID and a mischievous grin, picking up latina girls and learning the sway of their hips.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, and Louis jumps again, looking up in the street lamp at Harry.  
  
“I...wanted to talk to you,” he edges, pulling his beige sweater around his wrists. Harry, still sweaty in his cut off black t shirt wonders how the hell he can wear that in this weather.  
  
Harry blows out smoke. “Why?”  
  
“Because -  fuck, Harry, are you going to make me yell?” Louis huffs, and Harry has the inclination to nod, make Louis fidget in a neighborhood that obviously makes him nervous. He’s never turned his nose up before, no matter who it was.  
  
Regardless, Harry puts out his cigarette and sneaks down the shaky back balcony, gesturing for Louis to come up. He does so hastily, clutching his keys close to his chest and looking around again.  
  
“Someone following you? Calm down,” Harry rolls his eyes, but it’s only to mask the fluttering in his stomach because Louis is here and all Harry wants to do is grab him and kiss him and that is so unhelpful.  
  
“No,” Louis says indignantly. “I just, I wanted to make sure you were alright.”  
  
“You - you wanted to make sure I was alright,” Harry repeats awkwardly. “Sorry, but would you be?”  
  
Harry’s met with another lapse of silence as blood flushes underneath Louis’ cheeks and he looks down again. Louis’ wounded pride always seems to affect Harry so adversely - he can literally feel his helpless guilt crawl into his bones. He wants to reject it, but when it came to Louis, apathy is never a choice.  
  
On one hand - Louis should fucking pay for all the shit he’s caused.  
  
At the time same time, it’s like this:  Louis loves everyone with one hundred percent of his heart, loved - loves  Harry with everything he had in the world, he endured the brunt of his grief and the loss of his mother alone, and he tried to take care of his girls and be enough.  
  
Even when he was faced with a choice no one should have to make - he made those choices. Yes, he cut Harry out of his life - but in an effort to make him hurt less. Stated plainly it’s hard to swallow, and Harry doesn’t want to admit it - but given the same circumstances, Harry can’t seem him making a choice all that different. This is the worst realization of them all. He understands Louis now, and his heart is still broken.  
  
“Sorry,” Harry finally sighs. “I’m just, you know.”  
  
Louis swallows. “S’okay. Lottie told me where you were. I just wanted - I came to apologize. Again. I just want you to know that I still love - ”  
  
“Please don’t say it,” Harry interrupts, holding a hand up because he can’t hear Louis say _I love you_ , not to him, not like this: half eclipsed in the shadow of his tiny bedroom, standing feet away from his mattress and Harry’s waiting hands.  
  
“I thought if I told you I didn’t want to be with you anymore I would start to believe it,” Louis explains in a half whisper. When he looks up Harry seems his eyes are swimming, but he isn’t crying. Not a single tear.. His voice is firm. “But I don’t. I wake up everyday, wishing that - you know, that you were with me - or I was with you -”  
  
“Stop,” Harry pleads, and as soon as he’s finished speaking he’s kissing Louis. He tastes like tangerines and salty Florida air, his mouth flush and wet again Harry’s. He tastes nothing of England and the Yorkshire tea they used to share every morning before class. He is shy and docile, and nothing like Harry wants to remember.  
  
Harry rips himself away, breathing harshly and rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck - I - sorry. You should go before I do something we both regret.”  
  
Instead of scattering, Louis takes a step closer. “I won’t regret it.”  
  
“Lou,” Harry whines, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not giving me a choice, here.”  
  
“I need this,” Louis says, his cold fingers coming up to pet Harry’s cheeks, trace his chin and the jut of his jaw.. “I need you. You need me too. Say it, Harry. Tell me you need me.”  
  
“I need you. _Of course_ I need you - ” Harry growls, cupping Louis’ neck and pulling him close, filtering his world with the smell of Louis’ expensive cologne and making a mental promise to ruin it, to make  Louis will smell like Harry, like home again.  
  
Louis kisses hurriedly, and Harry walks them to his bed where they topple onto to it in a mess of limbs and knees and elbows, clutching to each other and, giggling like school children. Harry peels off his t-shirt and scoops Louis up in his arms, shaking him out of his sweater and taste as much skin as he can possibly find.  
  
They make love in a state he’s never been in, in a tiny bedroom he’s only occupied for a day, underneath a golden moon, rocking into Louis like he’s mimicking the tide that pulls at the sand below them.  
  
  
-  
  
Together they lay, a thin sheen on summer sweat on their skin. Louis is softer and smells like a rich lather, a combination of sex and sweet coconut and _Harry_. Harry leaves open mouthed, lazy kisses on Louis’ lower ribs, which have always jutted out no matter his weight - he’s thinner now than he was when Harry left him in August. Louis smiles, looking at Harry through his crescent moon eyes, the blue of his eyes still visible against the darkness.  
  
The windows let in a soft breeze, the first peace that Harry has experienced in this weather.  
  
“What’s this from?” Harry asks, mouthing at a bruise the skin of a softball on Louis’ side, purple and blue as it curls around his back.  
  
Louis laughs slightly, shrugging, “I was running around the pool with Fizz and I slipped. Looks worse than it is. The girls had a great laugh at my expense, of course.”  
  
Harry smiles into his forearm. “Shouldn’t be running on wet ground, Lou. It’s against the rules.”  
  
“Since when have I ever followed rules?” he asks, tangling his fingers with Harry’s.  
  
“Probably never, I guess,” Harry murmurs, and he can feel himself fade as the moment passes. He’s sexed out and blissful, falling asleep to the soothing lull of the tide, Louis’ fingers still cool and soft against his skin.  
  
-  
  
Harry wakes up alone the next morning.  
  
-  
  
He dresses in his most breathable clothing, a white linen t-shirt and cut off shorts. Zayn is waiting for him downstairs with a cup of rich black coffee for him at the bar. Maria is already in the back, conversing in Spanish to another cook. Zayn listens with the tilt of his head towards the kitchen and translates for Harry that she’s discussing the menu; fried plantains with lengua de vaca  and pon de huevo  and lime custard to spread through layers of a white coconut cake.  
  
Harry is put in charge of a large vat of black beans and general clean up, which is relatively easy. Maria gives this task to him as a test; if he passes, he’ll be moved up the kitchen line from dishes to flat top. It becomes apparent quickly that his Spanish is less than subpar but at least his kitchen comrades find his accent amusing when mangles their language.  
  
It isn’t easy to  ignore the bruises on his hips, flaring with a dull ache every time he presses into the counters to make way for incoming orders. The faint memory of Louis’ teeth biting down hard enough to create little concave marks into Harry’s over sensitive skin; this is an old trick of his. It remains as a reminder that Harry used to believe they belonged to each other - never had there been anyone else.  
  
By mid morning Zayn saunters over to the dish rack and invites him for a cigarette, which Harry accepts. It’s quiet as they stand in smoke, Zayn’s apron smeared with red chile, his face set in an apathetic frown as he sucks down on his cigarette. Harry had forgotten how intense he was - how it felt to be inside Zayn’s presence. Harry always thought before he spoke to Zayn. Few other people induced that in him. Zayn is intimidating. Both his arms were littered with shrapnel scars from living in Kabul as a child. Harry tries not to stare.  
  
“How does it feel, like, to not be in New York?” Harry asks.  
  
Zayn looks at him for a moment, trying to gauge his motivation for asking, before shrugging. “New York was fucked up. You know that. I don’t need that shit - I needed some sun and with Maria, it’s just easy.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess,” Harry nods, flicking his cherry on the ground. “I’m sorry about - what happened with you and Liam. Relationships are worth shit, aren’t they?”  
  
Zayn shrugs again, putting out his butt in a tiny mosaic ashtray. It’s a while before he speaks, but when he does his voice is gentle and raspy. Maybe with smoke but also - maybe with something more.  
  
“Most of them are, yeah. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t fight for the ones that really matter,” Zayn says pointedly, but before Harry has time to respond he’s made his way inside, one of Maria’s grandchildren attempting to latch onto his kneecaps as he goes.  
  
-  
  
Louis’ silver Mercedes returns the next night just after midnight. Harry isn’t sure if he is surprised.  
  
It’s easy to ignore Robert and their beautiful home and Louis’ new family when Louis looks up at him from below the rickety back balcony. Louis smells different again, freshly showered and too sweet, but he smiles one of his smiles Harry swears he hasn’t seen since last summer.  
  
“Hi,” Louis says simply, “You smell like pineapple.”  
  
Harry laughs, “Yeah, well. I made pina coladas all day.”  
  
“Rough life,” Louis says, and Harry can’t help but curl his hand around the back of Louis’ neck, twirling the hairs at the nape of his neck.  
  
“C’mere,” Harry whispers, and Louis says no more, pressing himself against the stucco wall of the villa. Harry loses himself in Louis’ new smell, trying to manipulate it as he pulls his hips closer, clutching at Louis’ tanned skin with the blunt edges of his nails.  
  
-  
  
It develops into a pattern, one Harry spends all day looking forward to. Time passes in a blur of elbow deep dish water and cooking and Maria’s never ending list of tasks to improve the restaurant. The heat is like nothing Harry’s ever experienced, humidity is like breathing into a wet sock, sucking the life out of him. It storms every afternoon at four, and Zayn will stand with him underneath the back awning on a milk crate and watch as their world floods, cigarette tucked between his lips.  
  
Waiting every evening for Louis made Harry wonder if this is some sort of backwards Cinderella; some kind of storybook Stable boy.  
  
It isn’t a fairytale, however. Some nights Louis doesn’t show up at all and it ignites an irrational rage inside of Harry that he can’t control or express - because Louis isn’t _his_ anymore. This is a realization that aches inside of him like a chronic illness. It feels like losing an old picture or grappling at a memory that cannot be replaced. Harry sometimes feels Louis literally slip through his fingers, falling away like smoke, and he wonders why he isn’t strong enough to grip tighter.  
  
They were raised to believe that love conquers all - no one had a love story like Louis and Harry. But it isn’t a fairytale because there is no happy ending; maybe they were small town sweethearts but now Louis goes home to another man, sleeps in their bed at night and kisses him good morning. Harry’s future has changed from spending a life with Louis to attaining a few short hours of illicit sex and ignoring their doomed fucking reality. They spend their few minutes blissed out and rekindling their love before Harry falls asleep and Louis is gone long before the sun rises, high up in the Floridian sky.  
  
Not having Louis - knowing someone else does, makes Harry want to claim ownership. He hates this about himself. He’s never wanted Louis to be _anyone’s_ \- not even his - until now.  
  
It isn’t fair because Harry misses out on the moments where they could lounge around in comfortable silence, exchanging quiet touches, sharing a secret smile and finding each other’s eyes in the lazy afternoons. Harry misses out on the cheese toasties Louis used to make so well on their hot plate in their dorm, on the mid-afternoon snuggles between study sessions, on holding hands underneath desks and taking the long way home before dinner at Jay’s or Anne’s during secondary school. Harry misses out on Louis’ Sunday smile and his nighttime mischief, when he used to wake Harry up by sucking him down, down, down, until Harry swore he saw stars.  
  
Harry tells himself there is no possible way that Louis loves Robert, because he wouldn’t be there every night, pleading with Harry to make him feel good and to need him, touch him, want him. Harry gives in so easily because it’s Louis and he’s weak.  
  
He wishes Niall were there to guide him. Hell, he wishes Liam were there to scold. Anything that would give him a sense of normalcy, shake him out of this dream where he makes love to his soul mate every night and longs for his touches during the day. This is no long term fix. His heart won’t make it.  
  
Their story isn’t a fairytale, Harry knows this now. It’s a goddamn tragedy.  
  
-  
  
Louis is wrapped up in his ratty t-shirt and leaning against the balcony railing when Harry asks him if he can see the girls. He’s been working up to it for a couple days, because he misses Lottie’s exasperated pre-teen tone whenever Harry makes a terrible pun, he misses Felicite and how she fits in the crook of his elbow when they cuddle;  he misses Daisy and Phoebe and how they attached to either side of him and begged with impish smiles for a piggyback ride home and Harry would pretend to be an aeroplane, soaring through Doncaster.  
  
Louis sighs, looking reluctant but Harry turns his eyes on, and doesn’t give a fuck if it’s a petulant because he needs to see his girls and it’s been nearly a year now. They must be so grown, so beautiful.  
  
“Alright,” Louis consents after a beat. “Come over at half past one, if you can. The girls have piano and ballet at two. They would love to see you, Haz.”  
  
“I want to see them so much, Lou,” Harry enthuses, reaching giddily and kissing the frown off his face. Louis gives in and laughs a second later when Harry nips at his cheek playfully. “I bet they're beautiful.”  
  
Louis scoffs, “Of course they are. The most beautiful girls in the world.”  
  
“You too,” Harry nudges with the tip of his nose against Louis’ cheekbone.  
  
“M’not a girl, Hazza.”  
  
He places a wet, sloppy kiss that makes Louis shudder. Harry whispers into Louis’ skin like he’s saying a prayer, “No, but you are beautiful.”  
  
Louis clutches at Harry’s shoulders like he doesn’t quite believe him, and arches against the railings into his needy touch.  
  
-  
  
One in the afternoon steadily approaches and Zayn sends him out after the breakfast rush, sucking down a marlboro red and winking at Latina girl with hips like honeysuckle and skin just as sweet. Harry tries not to speed but fails miserably in his excitement.  
  
Louis’ home remains excessively large and stoic, and Harry still feels out of place when he rings the doorbell. All of his shirts are cut offs  now because he can’t be bothered. Like every summer, he is in desperate need of hair cut. As kids it was a running joke between their mums about how moppish they could get.  
  
Louis looks just as pristine as the first time Harry saw him when he opened his front door.  
  
“Hi,” Harry says, and he’s breathless, because underneath his cream cardigan Louis’ wearing one of his old shirts, a Brand New concert t-shirt Harry bought when he was sixteen and was convinced he was invincible. How Louis obtained it, Harry doesn’t know but it fits him well, too big in the shoulders and stretched out from use. It reminds Harry of England and walking along dirt roads, drinking Stella on the way home from that concert. It had been Brand New’s first time in the UK, and Harry had gladly welcomed them with all his pent up teenage angst and a headbanger crown full of curls.  
  
“Come on in,” Louis welcomes, and Harry can hear the wonderful, familiar, screeching laughter of his four little ladies just a room over.  
  
Louis leads him out to the veranda again. The slip covers on the seats are bright yellow instead of white, and Harry runs his fingers over the back of one, thinks of Louis, and smiles. He’s nearly taken out when a small Imp wraps her arms around his legs, effectively getting his knees damp from her bathing suit.  
  
“Harry! Harry! Harry!” Daisy squeals, not relenting her screeching until he picks her up in arms and situates her on his hip. She kisses his cheeks, just like she used, and he kisses her back, pressing his palm to the side of her freckled face and trying to calm the fluttering in his heart because he doesn’t think he can love anyone this much.  
  
“Hey, boo,” He says, smiling, and she doesn’t do much but kiss him again, her tiny lips like butterfly wings as they touch all the corners of his cheeks and nose. He hugs her tighter, bending down only to pick up Phoebe, who is equal in her excitement but rather less handsy. She cuddles into his side and his arms are probably going to start aching, but he doesn’t care.  
  
“Harry! We’ve been swimming all day! Harry! It was so fun! You should swim with us!” Daisy says in a  excited rush.  
  
“Maybe sometime, I’m bring my suit, yeah?” Harry promises. Felicite rounds the corner, with floating devices still on her arms and she presses her head into Harry’s stomach, nearly knocking the breath out of him.  
  
“Alright girls, let him breathe, sit down, you know...” Louis chastises, and he sets Daisy down so she can run back to the pool, fitting a circular blown up horse around her waist and floating down the length of the pool in it.  
  
“Hi, Harry.” Lottie says, her towel tight around her shoulders and her hair longer and blonder than ever before. _She is so beautiful_ , Harry thinks, and he knows he’ll have to start beating back the boys with a stick because Louis is too proud to do so. Harry doesn’t mind getting down and scummy with it. (He conveniently forgets he’s not obligated to be the big brother anymore but who the fuck cares because they’ll always be _his_ girls).  
  
“Oh, Lots, look at you," He sets Phoebe down and scoops his one and only girl into the air, and she giggles despite looking pained at the attention.  
  
“Alright, alright, put me down, turd,” She grins, “You need a proper hair cut. You look like a tramp.”  
  
“Darling, I _am_ a traveling bloke,” Harry laughs, and pushes Lottie’s face into his armpit. “Smell me! Eau de boy!”  
  
Lottie squeals and pushes herself away, before smiling again and wrapping her arms around his middle. Harry recognizes that this is a moment where she doesn’t want to acknowledge the phone calls, the texting, the moments where she missed him so much he nearly cried. Lottie is a big girl now, and big girls rarely show their true emotions.  
  
They part, and Harry kisses her forehead despite her protest, because he can’t help himself and he honestly doesn’t care.  
  
“Will you get your sisters rinsed and ready for dance? The car will be here in five minutes,” Louis points out a half hour later, and Lottie calls out for her sisters, who follow her inside through the open kitchen door and disappear.  
  
“Thank you,” Harry says sincerely, pulling Louis into a strong hug, holding him tightly despite his lemongrass smell. It’s always different, and never what he’s used to.  
  
“Yeah, Harry, of course,” Louis says like it’s obvious, and Harry can’t believe he’s tearing up but - just. _Fuck_.  
  
“No, really. I needed that. I needed to see them. Fuck, I’m such a baby,” Harry admits, laughing at his stupidity and wiping his eyes.  
  
“Hazza, stop, come on. I can’t even begin to tell you how much - how much we needed you there. The first few months, my god, I didn’t think I was going to make it.”  
  
“I could have been there if you wanted me,” Harry can’t help but point out, mumbling into Louis’ shoulder and feeling a bit childish.   
  
“I know,” Louis sighs heavily. “That’s the problem. You have your whole life ahead of you and I have - this,” He gestures weakly to the house and the pool toys strewn around the neatly manicured yard.  
  
“It doesn’t have to be that way - “ Harry starts but he shuts his mouth quickly when Lottie comes to the door, wearing a leotard and holding her tutu.  
  
“Harry, will you walk us out?” She says, and Lottie even allows Harry to take her hand to the front door where Phoebe and Daisy are putting on their tiny pink shoes, their wet hair tied up neatly in buns with little bows. Harry twirls Fizz around, only setting her down when she swears she’s going to pee laughing. Her tiny fist grapples onto his knee as she steadies herself, and the coach outside pulls up.  
  
Lottie comes to him last, and Harry bends down to hug her. She holds tight, her arms wound around his neck like blush colored vines. “Don’t leave us here,” she whispers, half-pleading, and Harry has no time to ask her what she means or why she sounds so desperate because they’re ushered out and disappearing down the winding road off the estate.  
  
-  
  
Louis shows him the rest of the house, and Harry makes sure to kiss him in every room, on every wall and tucked around every corner, pressing his thumbs into the corners of Louis’ hips, grappling at his firm bum, kneading the flesh of Louis’ thighs with his bony, weathered knuckles. Louis smiles every time, his laughter unconfined and filling every corner of the room. He brings Harry to master bedroom, where Harry attaches himself to Louis’ body, pressing him against the large window that overlooked the pool and the veranda down  below.  
  
The bedroom is bathed in soft light and is white - _again_ \- but Harry doesn’t think any of that matters. He wants to make Louis forget his name and chant Harry’s at the same time, a soft mantra that used to be a soundtrack in Harry’s wet dreams.  
  
“God, you’re so fucking - “ Harry doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence, because Louis moans dirtily, grinning from ear to ear like the cock tease that he is, and Harry slides his hand between Louis’ open, wanton legs, feeling the spread of warmth there, and wanting to entice another reaction. He could touch Louis for the rest of his eternity, if only they were allowed to share their tiny slice of forever in peace.  
  
They fall onto the bed, Harry spreading Louis open and flat, running his fingers over Louis’ white jeans and licking at the tanned, gold dusted skin, feeling his tongue dance around the discrete hairs that swirl around Louis’ navel.  
  
He can feel the desperation start to build underneath his skin and blood rushes to his groin when Harry decides he’s done with the teasing and wants to feel, touch, captivate Louis. Consume him, entice him, make him _whole_ again -

\- when the sound of the front door shutting and a tinkling of keys and there is no way that’s Lottie, which means it could only be -  
  
“Louis!” a man’s deep voice calls from downstairs, and Louis has never turned paler before Harry’s eyes. Robert's accent is different - southern or perhaps just a slow, American drawl that originates somewhere that Harry wouldn’t be able to pinpoint on a map.  
  
Louis pushes up at Harry, nearly knocking their heads together, guiding him hurriedly into the master closet and shutting the door promptly. It bounces back but only leaves a sliver of light. Harry steps out of it, frozen with fear and boiling with stiff, unfiltered anger.  
  
“I’m up here,” Louis says, and Harry can tell his voice is off. Robert probably couldn’t.  
  
Harry can’t see Robert but he can smell him - dark, decadent cologne and tightly controlled arrogance, wealth and privilege that radiates from him even through the wooden doors of the closet. Harry tucks his fists underneath his armpits, and bites his lip.  
  
“Hello, love,” Louis is trying to for chirpy, but he’s failing. There’s an edge to his voice that runs deeper than just the fear of being caught with a grungy looking boy in his closet. “How were your morning meetings?”  
  
“Same business as usual.”  
  
“And lunch with Frank?” Louis asks, and Harry can hear someone sit on the edge of the of bed, where he and Louis were there mere minutes before.  
  
“Good guy, Frank. Nice wife too. Offered me quite a deal to sell a portion of my trees to Tropicana - said I’d have to think of it. You know, Louis, I have to leave for a meeting with Bob and Tess from regional management at three - that gives us, say, thirty minutes.”  
  
“Oh. I don’t, I don’t know, Robert.” Louis stutters. “I haven’t felt well all day, really.”  
  
“You’ll feel better after this,” Robert grounds out, and there’s another movement on the bed, and Harry is straining so hard to listen he can hear the thrum of the refrigerator a floor down.  
  
“No, I - maybe later we can - you know,” Louis says again, but his voice falters at the end and dies out and Harry thinks with panic whelming up inside of his heart, _No, Louis, please don’t let him do this._  
  
“Louis. Enough. Lie down, sweetheart,” Robert’s voice is thick with sweetness.  
  
“Robert - “  
  
“I said lie down.”  
  
“I - okay. Okay,” Louis says, his voice barely higher than a squeak.  
  
“There, see? That wasn’t so hard. Now come on, make me feel good. Do what you know how to do best.”  
  
Harry can feel the tension in the room, the stiff and almost suffocating with the height of Robert’s arousal. He dares not to breathe, in case a scream comes out in it's place.

He hears the pull of the zipper.

And then, “Robert, we could do this later, you know, when I’m feeling a bit better and we’ve had dinner but - ah,”  
  
Harry flinches at the sound of the slap, his own cheeks radiating with heat.  
  
“Would you shut the hell up? God damn, I come home for a little while to see you and you can’t - even - _fucking_ \- appreciate that? What the fuck - is - _wrong_ with - you?”  
  
Robert pauses between each word to grunt and presumably rock forward, using his hands like restraints and dragging marks into Louis’ skin with each word he shoots into his skull. Harry can hear the squeaking of the bed; Louis is utterly silent, and all he can hear is Robert’s labored breathing, the unique sound of skin hitting skin until there’s a stuttered gasp and a low, guttural moan.  
  
“Don’t worry now, I'll take good care of you,” Robert coos, turning from malicious back to sweet so quickly goosebumps rise on Harry's skin. It feels like whiplash.

“No, really, I -” Louis protests but there’s another _slap_ of hand on skin, and Harry imagines the red mark on Louis’ pretty, open face, imagines his face hurtling into pain and he flinches at the sound of Louis’ pleading, playing over and over in his mind and he’s body is frozen like when he was eight and wanted to sleep in a makeshift igloo in his backyard and Louis had to drag him inside half-past two because his lips were nearly blue and -  
  
Louis comes with a dry sob and Harry places the butts of his palms into his eyes, pressing against the tear ducts. He doesn’t know when he went from standing to sitting to curled up in the fetal position, barely able to stifle his breath and the way his brain buzzes around the implications of what this means.  
  
Robert is whispering to Louis but Harry cannot hear him, he isn’t sure if he can hear anything, if every sound waves through a distorted filter that blocks the pain and the guilt and the lies and what they have become.  
  
-  
  
It could be only seconds, or minutes before the closet door opens after what seems like decades of silence. Louis steps in, dropping down to hands and knees and crawling over to Harry’s sitting form, his shoulder minding a set of golf clubs.  
  
They don't speak for a long time; Louis simply curls around Harry, lying his face gingerly in his lap and Harry’s hands shake as they brush through Louis' hair; there are leftover tears on Louis’ cheek. Even the thought of making Louis suffer for throwing their relationship repulses Harry, sick with his own guilt. He is not sure he’ll ever be able to stomach what just happened, so instead he regresses.  
  
He regresses back to their last year of school, when they both got accepted to NYU, Louis for film, Harry for literature, both lighter than the clouds, giddy with implications of freedom and adventure that soon awaited them. Soon they would be free, soon they could kiss on every New York city avenue, protected by the street lights and the anonymity the city would offer them. Harry had turned to Louis the night before they boarded the plane, too excited to sleep, too nervous to make love, and recited their favorite poem:  
  
“ Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
  
These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
  
                                                     Tell me we’ll never get used to it.”  
  
Louis looks up at him, his face so unlike that night two years ago when they were just kids in love. His eyes are bloodshot, stricken with tears and shame. His fingers are nimble and unbalanced as they reach up to cup Harry’s cheeks, hold his mouth, slipping against his tongue and brushing the tops along his bottom layer of teeth.  
  
“Say it again,” Louis whispers, and Harry repeats the last three lines, Louis’ personal favorite, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut as the words form and shape themselves from his lips, glowing like gold dust before disappearing behind his eyelids again.  
  
-  
  
Soon they unpeel their bones from one another, and when Harry stands up his knees pop back into their sockets. There is a storm starting to rage outside, rain hitting the bay window that Harry had pressed Louis’ lithe body into just hours ago, the sun illuminating all his beauty and all his flaws.   
  
Louis holds Harry’s hand with both of his, and maybe this is Louis’ way of baring all to Harry as he strips himself down inside his massive master bathroom. Without his expensive, shimmery clothes, he looks more like the gangly boy that Harry once knew, crawling out of a patch of rose bushes with dirt on his knees.  
  
Harry doesn’t let Louis bare himself alone; he too pulls of his clothes, and together they stand naked as the shower runs, creating a textured sound against the rain outside. There is nothing remotely sexual about this; not anymore, not when Harry takes in the bruise that has mellowed to a mustard color on Louis’ side. It’s not threatening in its solidarity, but coupled with the violent love bites on Louis collar bone, his shoulder, the angry pink marks on his cheeks, the reddened flush of his lips, the last remaining evidence of what happened written all over his tanned skin, it sends shivers down Harry’s spine. It elicits a breathy, anxious gasp that Harry can’t contain.  
  
“You didn’t slip by the pool, did you,” Harry says after a moment. He doesn't even manage to phrase it as a question. Louis closes his eyes, and nods.  
  
He reaches out to touch Louis in a new way; handles him with delicacy, gentle hands that leave only traces of a touch, hands that don’t mark or scar or burn. He has no desire to be greedy any longer, he does not want to own Louis' body or possess his soul. Harry bites his lip as he runs his fingers over the pulsating bruise on Louis’ chest and eradicates those thoughts. Harry can’t take anymore, because soon enough, Louis will have nothing left to give.  
  
They kiss, chaste brushes of lips and Louis is mostly silent as Harry washes his hair, caresses his body, kisses behind his knees as he scrubs up and down his legs, gingerly touching his lower back, erasing the violence that existed on Louis’ buttocks and upper thighs. He cannot rub away humiliation that Robert has seared into Louis’ skin, cannot create consent for Louis when he clearly said _no_. There is nothing to make this okay, and Harry accepts it then and there, smelling like vanilla and lavender, washed to the cleanest he’s ever been in the nicest bath he’s ever seen.  
  
Louis doesn’t smile underneath the spray of the hot water, but he grasps at Harry’s hands, his fingers, linking them together like he might sink if he doesn’t quite hold on.  
  
Harry knows he isn’t strong enough to be someone’s anchor, but for Louis he’d sure as hell try.  
  
-  
  
Louis holds back his tears and tells Harry to leave.  
  
Harry feels like a failure the entire way home, and twice he pulls over to puke on the side of the road. The air is pungent and musky. The rain doesn’t stop, so thick and conducive that it looks almost like clear snow. The windshield wipers can only go so fast, so Harry guesses his way home. He is so reckless and so stupid with his heart.  
  
It’s the tail end of the dinner rush and the garage door that is usually open is pulled shut to keep out the floods. Zayn’s not by his usual post, sucking on a cigarette. Harry climbs  up the stairs one by one, drenched and numb. He doesn’t bother undressing when he falls into his bed. He’s asleep within minutes.  
  
-  
  
He sleeps for three days and wakes up only to piss. Maria brings him up freshly cut mango and watermelon suckers with chile pepper on them, but Harry has not much of an appetite for sweets. She clucks sympathetically and doesn’t ask him when he can work again; he’s an easy causality and her cousin from Havana was coming soon to help out. Harry felt guilty nonetheless.  
  
On the third day, Zayn drops in and Harry feels immediately scrutinized. His hands are covered in sidewalk chalk, spreading to his clothes and in his hair. He smells like smoke and rain, dirty and hard and unforgivably warm.  
  
“Gonna tell me what happened?” Zayn asks, sitting on the floor by Harry’s bed. Harry shrugs, borrowed underneath his blanket even though it’s humid and sticky, but he likes the way the damp quilt sits on his shoulders, smelling like musty closets and black beans.  
  
“I don’t know if I can,” Harry says finally. His voice is hoarse and thick with snot. “Everything is so fucked up. Last year it was so different. Jay was still alive, Lou and I were...you know. Now it’s like...” He trails off, and his eyes squeeze shut because he can’t get the sound of Louis’ pleading, his bargaining chips falling short as Robert had his way with him, regardless of his consent, his dignity, his body. It’s like a movie reel in his head, fueling his nightmares and his anger and the all-consuming fear that if Robert ever found out about Harry he might do something much, much worse.  
  
“Now it’s like I’m fighting a losing battle,” he finishes. “I don’t think I’m going to get him back.”  
  
“Why not?” Zayn asks, defiant, and yeah, that’s how Harry felt too at first, before all this.  
  
“His fiance,” Harry cleared his throat, “Is very well-off. He can take care of Louis and the girls. I can’t. I’m...a uni student, studying literature for shit sakes. Louis’ right. He had to make a choice and he did what he thought was best.”  
  
“Bullshit he did,” Zayn says, cuts Harry off, glaring. “He made a choice of comfort, but he didn’t _have_ to make that choice. No one was pointing a gun to his head, no one forced him to ditch you for that prick. He made that choice because it was easier than the alternative.”  
  
“But -”  
  
“No, really, Harry. You two have something I’ve never seen, and it’s a fucking shame you’re both too scared to fight for it. You say 'you tried, you tried', but not _really_. You snuck around because it was easy, but that’s no solution. If you love him, you’ll get him, and if that’s too hard for him to understand, you have to leave him. You fuck around behind his fiancé’s back for too long and the relationship you guys had will become a fucking joke. Seriously.”  
  
“I - I don’t think I can move on, though. If he says no. Again,” Harry mumbles, feeling like a chastised child. Zayn’s eyes soften by a measure, but his mouth is still pressed into a firm line.  
  
“Maybe not. But you’ll have to. If you treat yourself like shite, who’s to say others won’t?”  
  
Harry nods, and Zayn sighs heavily, like it’s taken a lot out of him to even talk to Harry this way, and even though it stings to be called a coward, to bring light to what the past month has been, it’s the honest truth. It’s the honest fucking truth and Harry has been so tired of of wanting but not having, touching but keeping and god _fucking_ dammit, he’s got to make a choice.

The end is bleak. Harry realizes for the first time that this could truly be the end. Zayn offers him a cigarette and they smoke, letting the tendrils drift and swirl into the rafters, smelling the rain as it floods the streets.  
  
-  
  
He calls Niall, tells him he’s coming home. Niall simply tells him, “Love you, Haz. No matter what. Please come home.”  
  
With Niall, it's easy. His love is pure. And in another life, maybe he and Niall could have been something. In another life, Harry could have loved and lost like any normal fucking teenager, but it wasn't written in the stars that way. And so it goes.  
  
-  
  
The next morning it stops raining, and the skies clear for a moment. Maria predicts thunder later, maybe into the night, a storm brewing once more. Harry enjoys the beauty of the sun. He’d never realized before how much he liked it until he disappeared behind gray clouds and the shroud of his own depression.  
  
Harry drives over to their house, up the driveway, the orange trees bright and dripping with day-old rain. They are perfectly aligned in stunning, accurate rows.  
  
He knocks twice, wonders if Robert is home and then realizes he doesn’t really care anymore. He’s never been strong. He's always been helpless to his own heart. Louis used to love that about him.

Louis' head peeks out and his eyes widen dramatically, before shutting the door quickly behind him, his bare feet on the cobblestone front steps.  
  
“Harry, what are you doing here? Robert’s home, he’s going to ask questions - “  
  
“I’ve come to tell you I’m leaving. I’m going back to New York, and I’m asking you to come with me. I’m telling you, please, come with me.”  
  
“Harry, I -” Louis starts, but Harry shakes his head.  
  
“No. I’m leaving, Lou. I can’t watch you do this. I love you, I’m _in love_ with you, ever since we were fifteen and - fuck,” Harry laughs mirthlessly, a wet itch crawling behind his eyes. “We can make it work, Louis. If anyone can, we can. I love you so fucking much but - but if this is what you want, then okay. I won’t bother you again.”  
  
“Harry, no,” Louis says, his voice watery. “Please don’t leave.”  
  
“I can’t stay,” Harry opens his arms as a sign of defeat. “I can’t stay here and watch this man destroy you. You could leave him, bring the girls, come back to New York. Or England. Or wherever the hell you want. I just know either I have all of you,” Harry sighs, “Or none of you.”  
  
“Don’t do this,” Louis pleads, wrapping his hands around his body like he’s trying to keep his ribcage together. “Don’t make me choose.”  
  
“M’sorry, Lou. I am. I’m leaving tomorrow, and just..” Harry stutters. “I love you, alright? Isn’t that enough?”  
  
Louis’ crying, puppy dog tears and he bites at his hand, shaking his head no, no, no. “Me and the girls...my life is here. I can’t...I can’t. I’m sorry.”  
  
It feels like all the grief is lifted off of his body, skin light and goosebump-y, and Harry wonders if he’s real at all. He can’t feel his heart, or his body or his brain thinking: _Okay, alright, it’s done, it’s over_. He’s made his choice. Harry gets into his car and wonders if he’s real. He doesn’t feel real. As he drives away, he kind of wishes he wasn’t.  
  
-  
  
Harry smokes four cigarettes and recites _Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us_ in his head four times over, while he washes dishes, rolling his sleeves up to his armpits and shaking his hair out of the way. He doesn’t know what’s waiting for, maybe his heart to start pumping blood into his limbs, or the suicidal buzz tinkering around his ears to disappear. One of Maria’s youngest granddaughters draws small pink flowers on the wall with pen on the kitchen wall, giggling when one the cooks chides her gently.  
  
Harry’s whole life has held one clear and obvious consistency: Louis. He’s never thought himself as co-dependent, but what a fucking idiot he's been. It’s a sickening paradigm shift on his life; Harry’s whole future was Louis and his whole past had been Louis and he loved Louis until there was Harry left, half his heart missing when they broke up. It happened almost a year to the day.

Maybe he should have seen it coming, starting with Jay’s death and the phone calls and Skype chats getting shorter and fewer, the tired look in Louis’ eyes actually _guilt_ all those times. Maybe he should have prepared himself to lose in love. Maybe he shouldn't spent so much time mourning someone who so easily threw it all away. He can’t deny that Louis saw his chance to save his family and he took it, and maybe if Harry really loved him, he’d let him go like they say.  
  
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe Harry should have never met Louis; at his birthday party, or had play dates with him, seven years old on a swing set on a nameless playground, Louis flinging himself off the swing like a bird set to fly, landing neatly on his feet as Harry watched on, enchanted. Maybe Harry should have never fallen in love with Louis, over the span of a few years and then all at once. Maybe he shouldn’t have let Louis kiss him, smother him with his touch, let Louis crawl into his life and dig a hole into his heart.  
  
He bites through his tongue, almost drawing blood, working on his cigarette during the four pm flood. Blood stains the filter rusty brown and Harry closes his eyes, seeing the blood on Louis’ lip, the broken skin, the way Louis had looked, damaged, tainted, but determined: this is way it is.  
  
Louis doesn’t deserve to be man-handled and tossed around like some kept boy, some _fucking_ play thing to be used and bruised and put away. Harry wants to scream, wants to hold Louis close to him and shake him at the same time, plead and bargain and try to make him understand that no matter how secure he might be financially, he’ll never be loved like Harry loves him.  
  
The clouds roll in and it starts to rain harder. Harry trudges inside and listens to the droplets hit the roof, wishing he could disappear into the ocean and never resurface.  
  
 _Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._  
  
-  
  
And heartache is like this: it’s like waking up after only an hour of sleep thinking it's two years ago and he’s right next to you, breathing softly. It’s like imagining the way his back arches and tightens like violin bow when he comes, it’s like knowing what his skin feels like underneath your hands and almost feeling it now, seeing it in your brain, so vividly it must be real. It’s like seeing the rain and thinking of all the failed, half-ass solutions, going over the mistakes and the words said, the way Louis’ head tilted to the left when he kissed Harry, the way he tasted, like coconut and Florida.  
  
And heartache is like this: a phone call half past three that wakes Harry out of his reverie as lighting cackles maniacally in the sky.  
  
“Harry,” Louis says, and Harry can barely hear him over the rumble of the thunder. “I’m coming with you.”  
  
-  
  
There’s a bruise on Louis’ neck shaped like fingers, indents on his bones as he curves into the car, sopping wet and smelling like smoke. Harry brushes away at the few pieces of hair on his forehead, pressing the pad of his thumb against the corner of Louis’ distraught smile. The girls are tucked in the back, sleeping soundly and Harry doesn’t think he could ever love anyone that much, but he can, he can, and he will.  
  
“Where do you want to go?” he asks, and Louis leans over, presses his lips to Harry’s, and it tastes like a promise, like rain and wet and Louis’ smile, lazy in the mornings and alive at night. It tastes like forever, and Harry has to swallow his heart so he can focus on seeing through the rain. As they kiss, it feels like it used to, slowly, languidly, like they have all the time in the world.  
  
“Anywhere but here,” Louis responds and Harry obliges, their fingers intertwining over the gear shift as the thunder roars overhead.  
  
-


	2. Orange Glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liam settles against his pillow, and then he says, tell me sad stories about your childhood. Zayn doesn’t. He kisses Liam instead, and vows to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The notes from the previous chapter apply to this one too.
> 
> There is Islamophobia, racism and discussion of warfare in Pakistan and Kabul, Afghanistan during the American-Iraq war. It follows no specific timeline. Also a few instances of violence and two graphic OC character deaths. 
> 
> Please let me know if there isn't a correct tag and I will add it.

Orange Glory [2]

 

_round my hometown, memories are fresh_

_round my hometown, oh, the people i've met_

 

 _hometown_ , adele

  
  


-

 

His story does not start in a navy blue beamer, pulled over on the side of the road with wet dirt licking the sides, the Mississippi wind whipping through his hair, his skin covered in a fine mist of rain and sweat.

 

Blood pounds in his ears as he looks into Harry’s pale, fearful face, drenched in storm water, his hair slicked against his forehead like wet leaves. Someone is screaming at him to stop, screaming his name, loud and drawn out like the wail of a siren, and it is his body, not his brain, that reacts, pulled his fist back, aimed -

 

-

 

It was nearly eleven, well into the night on the outskirts of Kabul, where Zayn was curled up underneath a bench. Above him sat his Sasa, his paternal grandmother, withered and toothless. He sat between her feet like a tiny turtle, huddled around his knapsack, a few crumpled family photos, clothes. A broken watch his Baba jan had given him. Around them, at least twenty other Afghan or Pakistani families clustered together with broken belongings stolen from broken homes.

 

The van jumped and skidded along the dirt roads out of Kabul to their next checkpoint. This was their last resort out the country, freedom from the Taliban, the fear. In his childhood dreams, guns were like toys to be tossed around, bodies found in ditches with no faces and no names were part of their hide and seek. Their histories erased, honor was defiled by war. Zayn closed his eyes, gripped the skirts of his Sasa tightened as she muttered the same prayer under her breath, and he  tried best not to dwell on memories, listening to her voice like a solemn lullaby.

 

It sounded more like a song of mourning.

 

-

 

Zayn had not been born into a warzone, where bullets sounded like a bass thumping, stuttering mortar blasts sounded like distant firework, where the homeless lie dead in the street. Zayn was careful not to look at their glazed over eyes, fearing their souls would slip into his brain. His Sasa would forbid him not to go out into the daytime, only early morning, before the soldiers awoke from their night of feasting on blood and virgins, before the cries of the first children were sounded like shrill, lonely, mockingbirds.

 

His father would dismiss all of Sasa’s words, run his fingers through Zayn’s hair, curled around his neck and pinch his cheek, his smile made wide with the silver fillings in his teeth. Zayn, at eight, keened at his touch; looked for it during the day, crawled between the cracks and crevices of the hours to find his father fattening his pipe with tobacco or listening to the news. Maybe eating Halal chicken curry on a plate full of flat jasmine rice, feeding bits of the leftover chicken to their mutt of a dog, who in turn would lick the curry off his fat fingers.

 

His father was a rich man, one of the few Pakistani men who had moved to Kabul in support of the Taliban. He was a merchant of trade, and he boasted well that the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq would not last - not even Americans would proliferate war and invade in business that was not theirs. Afghan and Pakistani young people were at first flooded with hope when the Americans came, but after so many dead children and dead women,. his Baba jan would dismiss them too, as he blew smoke from his pipe during the afternoons, Zayn sitting by his feet as they listened to the radio.

 

Sometimes Zayn felt like their mutt, licking his Baba’s fingers, begging for more.

 

-

 

In Pakistan, he had his home, acres to play, his sisters, and there was no war. When his father moved them to Afghanistan, he was given bombs and bullets as trade.

 

Zayn had spent most of his life living within the walls of his home, brick and clay creating a barrier between him and the outside world. Besides his Sasa, there was only his friend Amir, a boy servant his Baba jan had hired to help with the slack of the house.

 

Amir was nearly as tall as Zayn but two years older, he was pink cheeked with wide set, narrow eyes, which were nearly always turned up in jest. After he finished a day of his chores, and Zayn, a day of school, they would play out in the gardens while Sasa would pick at her basil garden, or prune at her gardenias, muttering curses at the tiny bugs that dared eat her leaves.

 

They used to play in the puddles during the winters, where the gouges in the ground would turn into small lakes, a whole new quarantine for organisms and life to grow, and Zayn would look at the bugs underneath his magnifying glass, one Amir had found for him at a flea market one Sunday when Zayn was six. They found names for the insects, the creatures, called them long words they had heard uttered on the television.

 

The American accent was always thick and flat as it marred words that Zayn could just barely muster the courage to utter, fearful he’d get it wrong. Amir had no problem butchering American words, and Zayn could not make fun of him for it. He knew Amir cared far less of what people thought of him.

 

During the summers, hot and dusty, Zayn and Amir would lie on the tile floors in the mud room where it was coolest, the windows open to let in the perfumed air, stagnant with the heat. They’d tell stories and dream about being men, coming back from America with their degrees in Biology and be the heroes of Kabul.

 

-

 

The last time he would see Amir was the summer after Zayn turned ten. It was late in evening, a time his Sasa told him not to be out. There had not been a blast for nearly a week, and he could feel the people of Kabul sigh, heavy heads cradled in their hands before they tentatively opened their shutters, breathed in the light that bathed Afghanistan for ten harsh years. Zayn found no harm in being out.

 

He was skipping along the dirt, his toes digging into the dust, his sandals already peeling from too much use playing football in the garden with Amir, kicking it back and forth around the basil plant, much to his Sasa’s chagrin. Amir had no shoes to walk in, his feet tarred and nearly black, hardened like baked naan left out for days, tough like a donkey hoof. His toe was bleeding from a cracked nail and Zayn had watched, enthralled how Amir had let it bleed and not even noticed the pain. Zayn himself would have cried like a baby.

 

He was shuffling back home, nearly a kilometre away, his pockets heavy from candy he had bought from a weathered man who sold them in exchange for American dollars and batteries. Zayn had no American money, as his father believed that there was no use for it, that Afghanistan would ring true and be left to their own devices soon enough.

 

He stopped, frozen, when he heard a scuffle in an alley way, around the back behind an old butcher than had been out of business since the American war had started. The windows broken in, the old eftah sign hanging from a thread in the window, deprecated in grime and neglect. The voices were louder, and then hushed, and the bang of skin against the wall and the voices seemed to be getting closer - and Zayn held his breath, crouched behind a trash can.

 

He scarcely dared breathe, huddled like a small animal in his hiding place as the voices got louder, shouting curses, their tongues sounding like their were cut from a tree of rage. Sharp and splintering at Zayn’s skin.

 

He peeked around and realized it was Amir, who had been out on a last minute errand for more naan in the morning, because Zayn had eaten the last piece early and  had requested more for his breakfast the next morning, and naturally Amir had been the one to be sent, small and quick as he was, best to dodge bullets may they ever be led astray -

 

Zayn could hear them cajole him, call his Hazara mother a slut and tease him that she had bent over easy, that she hadn’t minded taking all three of them. He could hear Amir shudder, tell the group of boys the untruth. Could hear the way his breath stuttered over his voice, and there was no smile in his tone any longer; it faded away like smoke in his hands.

 

The boys were cruel and harsh, their laugh high pitched, and Zayn wondered if they were Taliban soldiers or cruel children, Big Kids from the secondary school, desensitized from the blood that spilled from their country, litre by litre. Zayn did not know. He could not see their faces.

 

 _Inshaalha!_ The boys were chanting like a drum roll, as automatic as those machine guns that sounds like a hurried tinkering on a piano. _Inshaalha! Inshaalha!_ God’s will.

 

Amir landed on the ground on his stomach, and Zayn could see his face was cut, blood pouring from a slash above his eyebrow, red stained against the sienna brown of his skin. He grasped at the dirt and rocks to no avail, and one of the boy’s foot came to hit Amir square in the back.

 

Zayn bit his lip, his back aching, his heart beating so loudly he could barely hear another sound. Warfare could be sounding around them and Zayn would not know. All he could see was Amir’s face, and the recognition that dawned on it when he discovered Zayn’s small, covert hiding place in the shadows.

 

The blows were coming harder now, and Amir put his finger against his lips, and Zayn can almost hear him say: _hush little baby, don’t you cry_. His cheek was pushed into the dirt as they stomped on his spine and neck, and Zayn shook his head, his face slick with salt, sticking to his fingers as he covered his mouth in a silent scream.

 

Amir’s eyes were trained on Zayn and he stopped crying out. Soon, he became still, silent, a ghost of a smile on his face as he looked on into nothing. Finally, the beating stopped, and Amir’s eyes closed. Zayn watched the light disappear, and all that was left was a body.

 

-

 

His Sasa never made it out of the Pakistan like she promised they would. Zayn can still hear her quiet cries as all the women are ordered out of the bus and into another. Zayn had clutched at her skirts as she prayed, harsher under the light of the moon, illuminating the shadows in the desert. The driver, agha Karib, held a gun strapped to his back and stood with a wide stance.

 

“No room for both, we need light loads to cross. Women in this truck, boy and men in this one. Now.”

 

No one questioned him. Zayn whimpered into her skirts. His Sasa scooped him up into her arms and cradled him close.

 

“We’ll see eachother soon,” she murmured into his ear, and he wishes her skin still smelt  like her flowers back home. “The very next day, I’ll be waiting for you, _hafeed_ ,” she kissed his hair and her hands felt like thin paper as they ran down the back of Zayn’s neck.

 

“I love you,” Zayn whimpered, as another man pulled at his grandmother, urging her off the truck.

 

“Just one tear. I’ll see you soon,” she calls out, and Zayn thinks he can still her voice; gravelly like the rocks at the bottom of her flower beds, calling out to him that one night in Kabul.

 

One tear. _One tear, I’ll see you soon_.

 

-

 

At the orphanage in East London, Zayn loses his native Urdu and his fluent Pashtu in trade for English. He dressed in Khakis and plain white t-shirts, rolled up at the cuff. Smokes hand-made cigarettes and listened to the older boys call out at pretty birds dressed in their school uniforms and pin up half-naked posters of the _Girls Aloud_ and Grand Theft Auto on their walls.

 

Zayn had never seen a half-naked woman before. He traced the swell of Nicola Robert’s breast with his eyes, the curve of her hips and her exposed midriff, her frozen eyes glowering down at him during the night.

 

In the posters they had dead eyes, reminds him of when the Taliban would stroll the streets with guns spinning between their fingers, heroin addled and singing old Arab wedding songs, looking for someone to provoke them. By the end of the day, someone always did, and the rest of the neighborhood would breathe in relief, wait for another day and pray it wouldn’t be them, wouldn’t be their children. Pray to Allah for sweetness and divinity.

 

Sasa had told Zayn that he had an uncle in America - Miami - a place that, when described in his uncle’s letters, sounded vaguely like paradise. There were tall trees that grew oranges; golden orbs that tasted like the sun. Zayn had never seen the ocean. He used to see it in the movies dubbed over, outdated in America but current in Kabul, where young Americans would swim in the beaches only to be eaten by a ravenous shark, stalking its prey.

 

All the oceans Zayn had seen before had been tinged red with blood.

 

The keepers of the orphanage - tall women who mocked him for his Pakistani accent before he knew the language, their tongues crisp and sharp, stinging as they licked at the disintegration of his heritage. Terrorist, they sneak behind their hands, greedily feeding on his difference, his Pakistani blood, suicide bomber little freak.

 

He wants to tell them: Pakistan is a country that borders India. I have seen it on a map. I want to know why you say I am from the Middle of The East, and why you say it like there is glass in your mouth.

 

He doesn't, though.

 

After he turned eleven and was more than able to string two words together, his accent strange on his tongue since he still spoke in his native language in his head. Told them, head held high, hair a shock of inky black atop his head, “I have an uncle in America. I want to go to him.”

 

Sometimes in his sleep he dreamed in English, of being forced into eating non-Halal beef with his protests silenced, white hands sticking fingers down his throat, making him choke and gag.

 

Sometimes his dreams were of his childhood, of Islamabad and then later, of Kabul, a once glittering city now in ruins from the Soviets and then the Taliban.

 

Sometimes he’d hear his Sasa calling out to him in the streets, telling him, just one tear, hafeed, or sleep sound and tight, my little habibi. Just one tear, nay.

 

Sometimes, but not frequently, he would dream of Amir.

 

-

 

He came to Maria on a bright spring day on an airplane filled mostly with white people. Though he was a little boy, merely a young _sabi_ , he could still feel their stares on him. Their eyes felt like burns from the scorching Middle Eastern sun, blistering upon his back and ears.

 

She was a small, squat lady when the taxi dropped him off in front of a multi-colored apartment, the bottom merely an opened garage door that led into a restaurant. The walls were painted but it was peeling, orange like the many poppy fields in Afghanistan. The tables and chairs were worn, few were occupied, but they too were covered in paint. Even the people were painted, some red and some brown, some sparkled orange like burnt clay.

 

She came up to him from the side, her freckles standing out upon her cheeks like tiny gnats feeding on her face, but her eyes tipped up in a friendly smile as her hands gestured to his stance, his awkward eleven year old body in hand-me-down orphanage clothes, khakis rolled up at his ankles, sweat dripping down his back and pooling above his buttocks uncomfortably.

 

“Hola, Zayn, _me llama_ \- my name is Maria,” she said, and her accent sounded different; she sounds - Spanish, Zayn thought, like Raquel Welch from 10,000 years B.C., tiptoeing scantily around in her prehistoric bathing suit, a favorite movie to see at the cinema time and time again when the sun boiled down on the dirt and the warfare raged on. One of the last pastimes Zayn had enjoyed.

 

“Hi,” Zayn said, his voice rough. His eyes burned from the humidity - something he was used to, but not quite to that extent.

 

“I’m sorry to say your Uncle passed away, _mijito,_ ” she said, looking away past Zayn to the outside of the restaurant, where the road was rough and pockmarked with potholes and dirt. A moment later she clapped her hands, “Come, let’s eat. We’ll talk _manana_.”

  
  


-

 

For the first few years, it was just Maria and him. He came to follow Maria liked he followed his Sasa, but differently, because she is different. Perhaps it was just Maria, and her fierce nature, her gnat-like freckles, her black hair braided down her back like a long-necked dinosaur.

 

Cuban women came from a different stock than Pakistani women. They behaved differently. Rarely did they bow their heads.

 

Zayn found that he liked this. Maria was from Cuba but she knew Miami like the back of her hands, freckled and sunspotted, muddy and marked with different scars, small and indifferent. She smelled like spice but not like the spices they used to season lamb kebabs sold on corners. Like chile. Not of curry but of _masa_ , corn tortilla and black beans. Miami was heavy, stifling heat on the top of Zayn’s tongue.

 

For the first week, he curled up in his new bed, a lumpy mattress in the middle of the bedroom in  above the restaurant, thought about his Sasa, (though her face was beginning to fade from his memory), her words when she cursed at the aphids that ate at her beautiful gardens, how her hands smelled like flower petals. The soft, sweet, toothy smile she would give him sometimes before his bedtime, kneeling beside his bed and praying with him before tucking him away for the night. He never saw her sleep, his Sasa, never saw her cry. That was her rule, not Baba’s: Just one tear, _hafeed_. Just one tear, and be done with it.

 

Later, Maria came and took Zayn from his hideaway beneath sticky blankets and moth eaten pillows, brought him to the balcony. At first, she never touched him, never dared, but her smile was warm and welcoming, like there was nothing that could possibly dampen her sun. She sung in the mornings, Zayn had learned quite early on, her voice rich and earthy as it shook the windows.

 

“Look at the ocean, mijito. Have you seen such a thing?” she asked as they leaned over the balcony. And it was true: Zayn had never seen such a thing. It was the clearest blue, going on for miles. No blood. He nearly cried.

 

That spring, she took him on walks through Miami. Showed him the backstreets, pointed at the mutts that roamed the streets, looking for food. She always fed them old bread rolls, carrying them around in her pockets. Pointed to the markets down a street, densely populated with women and children that looked just like her, Cubans who had immigrated to Florida. Some had been here just a few months, some for generations. Despite this, they all called America the same thing: home.

 

-

 

Maria would tell him about his uncle, sometimes. He had been his Baba’s brother, but years older and far less ignorant. He had left Pakistan before Baba had moved the family to Kabul in order to support the Taliban regime and make more money off the war. Zayn learned quickly what a donkey’s ass his father was for doing so. They should have stayed in Islamabad, where they were already rich, and Sasa’s ancestors had said to have lived there since the borders were drawn in the sand and they were able to call themselves Pakistani.

 

His uncle had been a tall man, with a thick black beard and a penchant for cigars. He liked peach-flavored, but especially Cuban. That’s how he met Maria. At the time, she been just a girl, barely nineteen and he, close to forty - but they had fallen in love. Zayn, at the time, thought this was foreign. The marriage between his Baba and his mother was arranged by his mother’s father. The same went for his Sasa, though she had been a widow for most of her life.

 

He had a strong accent that curled around his words like a thick Afghan tapestry would smother smooth tiles, soaking in the sweat of your feet on a hot day, and he was a faithful Muslim, but a radical liberal. Damned the war. Damned the government. Damned the terror that man allowed.

 

Maria told his stories before they would fall asleep together underneath tattered quilts, sold at flea markets for cheap, made by so-and-so’s grandmother - like everything Maria owned, and she would echo his voice, deep within her bosom. Zayn would shift up near to her, gnawed on his knuckles and nail beds as she painted beautiful stories behind his eyelids. He rarely asked questions. Didn’t want to break the spell.

 

He died from smoking too many cigars, Maria warned him. “Don’t smoke, Zayn, you’ll go as your uncle,” she would tell him over and over again, but Zayn’s fingers were already stained with tobacco to cover up the smell of salt from his tears. _What’s it matter_ , he used to think. _Everyone from the life he once knew was dead._

 

Sometimes, when the breeze was right, he could still smell them, tears fresh on his ten year old  hands as he crouched behind a trashcan.

 

-

 

So he began to love Maria, and she loved him. She had a stout body, but a beautiful face, her hair like a rope that she whipped and commanded the attention of nearly everyone in her kitchen. She ran the show, not anyone else; not her husband, not her father, not her God. Maria was steering the direction of her life. Zayn watched on, amazed, unable to tear his eyes away.

 

At night, she’d take him on walks down the beach. Would point at pieces of sea glass and broken seashells for him, hidden from the naked eye and he’d take them home, place them carefully in a wooden box and keep it stashed in the corner of their room. As the summer was making its headway, cultivating its finale before fall came at last, Maria helped him cut all his khakis to shorts. They shared socks bought in bulk from Walmart, sometimes crew-neck t-shirts, too. When it grew too hot, they would sleep on the balcony, the ocean nearly close enough to spray them  with fresh foam.

 

She would pinch at Zayn’s shoulders in the mornings while he ate breakfast, clucking her tongue.

 

“You will be too big so soon, no longer _mi pequito_. What a relief,” she would grin, but sometimes her eyes would be sad, they would not quite crinkle in the corners because Maria was a smart woman. She knew that Zayn had lost his childhood long before he ever came to Florida.

 

-

 

Maria came the closest to ever being his mother. His own mother, Baba’s second wife, had died giving birth to his younger sister. The baby girl died a year later. Baba hadn’t spoken for nearly three days, but Sasa and Amir had buried her out in the garden, planted tulips above the little mound of dirt.

 

That night, Zayn had pleaded with Allah for guidance. He never got it.

 

So he stopped praying. By the time he had turned fifteen and his tongue was heavy with transatlantic English and his touch flourished by Cuban color, he had stopped believing all together.

 

-

 

Fifteen and _guapo_ , Maria would call him. Handsome.

 

High school was okay, though none of the other kids knew what to make of him. _Zayn Javadd Malik_ , they would question, like where the fuck is he from? His name lost the flavor that it had held in Pakistan when he was a child, now  flat on their American tongues.

 

His accent was still creased with English, but the faint scent of Pakistani would still hang on his tongue sometimes, on different words, like hunger or war. He dared not think it as a coincidence.

 

He had the bone structure, the upbringing of a Cubano. He liked music, guitar and drums, he liked Cuban women and their gossip, listening in while he served them _dulce de leche_ and croquettes and _frijoles con arroz, por favor_. The Senoras who not fooled by his smile.

 

But the _Senoritas_ were young and pretty, looking through their long black eyelashes up at Zayn, smiling as if they knew exactly what he wanted.

 

He had been cutting between an alley after practice on his way back to the restaurant. Maria would need his help bussing and serving and greeting and smiling, as the dinner rush was going to start in a bit and he still needed to wash up, dirty on his knees and legs, underneath his fingernails from soccer practice.

 

In Islamabad  as a child they had called it football, and nearly everyone played. Kicking around a hard round ball between two sticks made for a goal post, boasting victory every time Zayn or his makeshift team would score. Sometimes they’d play for hours underneath the hot sun. In Kabul, he only played with Amir, and when the ball would soar over the brick wall, Amir would go fetch it for them, and when it landed in Sasa’s gardens, Amir would take the blame -

 

But no matter now. In America, they called it something different, soccer. The same concepts, same rules, but different attitude. They didn’t play with their soul, didn’t kick around the ball with as much grace as Zayn had remembered some of his childhood friends would, flipping the balls on their cracked feet, skipping delicately over broken glass and dead leaves, weaving, sweating, but smiling. He was still grappling to understand.

 

The sun was beating down on his neck. “Zayn!” someone calls, and he whirls around, tugging the strap of his bag tighter.

 

He breathed as she walked up to him. “Hey,” his voice came out like a gust of wind. He pretended he wasn’t glancing around the corners of the alley, his heart stuttering in his chest.

 

She had been a girl of one of the Senora’s who came by for brunch, a friend of Maria’s. Her daughter must have been Zayn’s age or older. She had wide-set hips but long, slender legs, browned from the sun. Her face had a soft curve to it, her long brown hair tumbling down her back. At one point, she had put blonde in a streak, tucked behind her ear. She had a smile like candy.

 

-

 

He missed the dinner rush, coming home late with his lips bruised and uncertainty clinging to his gut, unable to shake it away. His guilt was churning in his bones, making him feel shaky and withered down. Maria was wiping down tables.

 

“ _Donde estas_ , Zayn?” she said, slinging the damp rag over her shoulder. “Why were you so late?”

 

“ _Lo siento_ , Maria. I was...” he looked away, guiltily, feeling as if he had somehow betrayed Maria, too. She looked at him with a pinched brow, her hands on her square hips, before shrugging. “...caught up.”

 

“You alright, though? You didn’t run into trouble, did you?” she asked, disappearing into the kitchen and bringing out two plates of freshly cut peaches and pon de huevo, setting it down between them. Zayn sagged in his chair, his practice bag falling down by his feet with a harmless clunk.

 

“No, no trouble. Just...” Zayn looked away. Maria sensed the tension in the air and patted his hands.

 

“No matter. Don’t be late again, mijito. Now eat, you look pale.”

 

-

 

He went back to the girl with the candy smile. Wanted to taste her again. Zayn had found her easily after practice, sitting on the steps of a tiny apartment complex, playing with a baby girl who ran around naked except for a soggy diaper.

 

Her eyes lit up flirtatiously. “Hello, Zayn. Long time, no see,” she jested, and he grinned, averted his eyes. She took him by the hand and led him upstairs, past the crying toddler, and the television, up to a tiny bedroom with a bed pushed into the corner.

 

“How are you?” she asked curiously, chipped fingernail polish on her hands as she brushed at his cheek. Her tenderness made Zayn flinch.

 

“M’okay,” he mumbled.

 

“Want me to make you feel better?” she smiled, and there it was again. The sway of her hips as she sat down at the edge of her bed. “Come here.”

 

He obeyed, watched as she unbuckled his belt, the button, the fly. Palmed at his crotch until he was aching, harder than he was sometimes in the mornings. And then she put her mouth there.

 

-

 

He never told Maria about the girl with candy mouth, or the things she would do to him, or make Zayn do to her. Make Zayn taste her, finger her, fuck her into that too-soft mattress and until she nearly screamed, digging her fingernails into his back. As he became older, he never told her about the other girls, too, as they came along. Never brought them home to Maria. None of them were ever good enough.

 

Maria sensed the distance, but she said nothing of it, didn’t recognize it. Zayn grew taller than she, up and up, developed broad muscles from sports and puberty and those good ole genes. Still a commodity in the small Cuban community, but less gangly and weird. More exotic.

 

“You’ll be a man, soon, _hijo_ ,” she would say to him before he would fall asleep next to her, her eyes twinkling even in the darkness. He would smile against his pillow at the word hijo. Son.

 

“Maybe,” he would reply.

 

Maria would laugh. When Zayn turned seventeen, she opened up more of the rooms above the restaurant, cleaning them out and giving him his own room, his own bed. He would never admit it, but sometimes he missed sharing with her. He was grown now, Maria said.

 

Zayn didn’t feel so grown.

 

-

 

Maria had aged in the six years that Zayn had known her. Her life became heavier, her face had aged a bit. Her freckles were still stark on her face, but her hair had been streaked now with gray. It was only Zayn and her for six years; she hadn’t expected to take on  the gaggle of grandchildren her flake of a daughter left behind.

 

“Just overnight, Mama,” Maria’s daughter said, her eyes glassy and her hair flat against her head. She was too thin, Maria always said. Too thin for a Cuban woman. Some called it bad luck. Maria called it drug addiction. “Just overnight, and I’ll be here in the morning for them.”

 

Maria’s daughter never came back. The year Zayn graduated high school was the year Maria took in her four grandchildren - Jacob, Miquel, Bibsy, and Therese. They were tiny, underfed, hyperactive little habibis, and kept calling Zayn  hermano, as they would circle him after school, clinging to his legs and arms like monkeys on a tree.

 

He never bothered to correct them. Jacob was old enough to know they was no relation between Zayn and himself, recognized it in his eyes that they were different. Zayn was good at fitting in, throwing out words in Spanish, the Cubano accent curling on his tongue, but he still had Pakistani blood in his veins, pumping through his heart.

 

-

 

It’s the night before he boards a plane and flies to New York. Zayn had never expected to go to college until Maria had pushed him to - and fancy prep schools sure do like colored kids with brains. Thought them special. Zayn wasn’t entirely sure.

 

The heat in Miami was borderline disgusting as he took another drag on his cigarette, sitting on the rickety staircase that connects their living area and the restaurant down below. The ocean is lovely at this time at night, but Zayn is so used to the constant pull and ebb it barely phases him anymore. In a way, he sort of misses being amazed by the water.

 

Maria settles in next to him. “Mijo, what did I tell you about smoking?” she clucks her tongue with disapproval. Zayn smiles at her.

 

“You tell me lots of things,” he says simply.

 

“Give that here,” she orders, and he sighs, already lamenting another wasted cigarette before he passes it over. Instead of stamping it out, however, she takes a long, deep inhale, breathing as the smoke filters out of her lungs.

 

“Since when do you smoke?” Zayn can’t keep the laugh out his voice. Maria is full of surprises. She eyes him steadily for a second, flicking the cherry and handing it back to him.

 

“I will understand if you don’t come back here,” she sighs, and puts on her brave face, one Zayn has seen many a time before: when they once had to cut the power because it was either lights or food for the week, or they weren’t making enough to pay off the cooks, or her daughter had left a trail of negligence like usual. “I will not blame you, if you want to stay at the school or travel. You could go back....”

 

“What?” Zayn says softening. He grabs Maria’s hand, now dwarfed by his, and rough from working her whole life, and kisses the back of her hand. She tastes like salt and Florida. “My home is here, Tia,” he mumbles, pressing their entwined hands to her breastbone, right above her heart.

 

She smiles, her eyes cloudy. “ _Tu eres mi segunda oportunidad_.” You were my second chance.

 

Zayn shuffles closer. Suddenly it aches to leave like it hasn’t before.

 

He’ll miss this - miss Maria and her wisdom, her pure faith in him, miss the loud bustling nature of the kitchen, the sounds of the morning when Maria wakes at the crack of dawn, opening up the shades and letting the sun breathe against the windowsills, beckoning. He’ll miss Jacob and his inquisitiveness, the way Bibsy sits in his lap and how Therese will tug at his hair in amusement, and Miquel’s beautiful drawings in the sand.

 

He’ll miss the stink of Miami, his pocket Cuban communities, he’ll miss the ocean and how in any part of Florida - any part - it’s right there, waiting. He’ll miss sitting out on the milk crates, smoking, he’ll miss the neighborhood girls, and even the Senoras who give him shit for being so outrageously flirtatious. He’ll miss fresh _frijoles negros_ , the food, the flavor. He’ll miss the Spanish, even though it’s far from his first language - the language of passion. He’ll miss feeling it roll off his tongue.

 

Maria wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. They sit out on the top step, looking at the beach in silence, for a very long time.

 

-

 

He’s not quite sure why he’s been put in the ‘International’ dorm, seeing as he’s been a legal citizen in the United States for nearly seven fucking years, but no matter. Zayn’s not going to get upset about it. As soon as he navigates his way out of the airport, he picks up a pack of cigarettes and smokes three in a row. Flying still fucks with him.

 

New York is dirty and sweltering like Miami but it’s different - it’s different in the way people carry themselves, how they talk. New York is a lot of tall buildings and gray. Miami is brown and orange and yellow from the sun - swirled in with aquamarine and navy and beige from the beaches. The women wore color there. There’s a lot more black here, and heavy blues in the air. There’s less music, too - at least, not the kind of music Zayn is used to hearing. The hum of the subway and the constant honking from the taxis’ don’t count.

 

-

 

On this second day, he meets Liam Payne, and he thinks, _this is it_. Where it begins.

 

In retrospect, he was half correct. It was the beginning of the end.

  
  


-

 

Louis’ fiance - Richard or something is standing outside the Pambiche before it opens that morning. Harry left two days ago with a hastily written note and fifty in cash for his trouble. Maria hadn’t said anything, but they both shared a look over dinner that night. White boys.

 

Zayn flicks his cigarette to the ground. Usually only locals and friends of Maria came to eat here - tourists tended to keep around the promenade. Never do they stray off the beaten track.

 

“Can I help you?” Zayn asks, kicking the milk crate from behind him and crossing his arms. “ _Senor_?”

 

“I’m looking for Louis. You know where he went?”

 

Zayn covers up a bitter laugh with his hand, wiping sweat off his top lip. “What makes you think I know where he is? Thought he was with you.”

 

“I know he came here. And I know about his friend, Harry.”

 

“Dunno how I’m suppose to help you,” Zayn shrugs, purposefully useless. “Haven’t seen him. I’m sure he has good reasons for being gone, though.”

 

“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Richard the rich white man frowns at him, his heavy brow glistening with sweat.

 

Zayn doesn’t placate him: that’s what he’s used to. Instead he squints and says, “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

 

The atmosphere shifts. Zayn pictures himself rearing back and smashing his cheek into the back of his head - a healthy fucking dose of his own medicine -  but another voice, once that sounds suspiciously like Liam, whispers to him, _think of Maria, think of the kids. Don’t be that asshole again_.

 

Instead of slamming his skull into his Mercedes, Zayn tucks his hands in his underneath his armpits and looks at him from underneath his brow. He knows how to give this look - one that he used to give those kids who would pick on him for being a terrorist, white assholes who ride around Miami, still sucking on their mother’s tit and drowning in their money. Louis’ ex fiancé is no different from all the others.

 

“If Louis has said anything to you- ”

 

“He’s said nothing, _cabron_ , and I think it’s time for you to leave. You’re not welcome here.”

 

Zayn watches his face turn openly agitated, a menacing smile curls around his lip and he sits inside his shiny car, drives off without another word.

 

Zayn knows men who beat their wives, their girlfriends, their children. When he was a child, it wasn’t something a good man would do, according to the Quran, but it was accepted, more or less - it is what it is, his Baba used to say. And in the Cuban community - drugs and poverty bring out the worse in some people, but it is what it is. You survive, you deal, and you move on.

 

This man is different. Zayn could feel the animosity rolling off of him in waves, and yet he had smiled before he left.

 

Zayn wondered if that’s how he looked before he hit Louis. Bright blue polo, Rolex, smiles, rage surfacing faster than you could fuck up . _You’re stupid. You’re ugly. No one loves you. You don’t do anything right. You’re embarrassing. No one will miss you_. And then it simmers and disappears, turns into _I love you_.

 

Zayn tries to imagine the bruises Harry described to him. The distant, glassy look in Harry’s eyes, all the things he couldn’t say but Zayn heard all the same; this man tried to destroy his soul. He could have succeeded sooner or later. But as they say: it is what it is.

 

-

 

That night, after the kitchen is closed up and Maria has retired to bed, Zayn smokes his last cigarette of the day out on the balcony. Jacob appears by his hip, his skinny brown legs drowning in an old t-shirt Zayn grew out of.

 

“Mijo, what are you doing out of bed?” Zayn asks. Jacob stands in the doorway for a second in uncertainty.

 

“Who was that man?” his voice is still so young, and Zayn wonders if he sounded so young and suspicious growing up too.

 

“No one you worry about, _Jacovo_ ,” Zayn assures him. He pronounces Jacob’s name the way Maria does, the way it’s supposed to be: Hah-covo. “No fighting. Just a talk is all.”

 

“He wasn’t one of those men, was he. That used to take me away when mama used to disappear.”

 

Social workers. Even the mention of them sends a thrill down Zayn’s spine and he sucks on his cigarette for a moment. The orphanage in London had been traumatic enough, but Maria was sure that her grandchildren wouldn’t be taken away from her - they had enough orphans in Miami, she said. They’ll let anyone who wants the children take them, it’s less responsibility for the state anyhow. Zayn trusts Maria.

 

Jacob didn’t understand this yet. He hasn’t known love, or nurture like he’s supposed to. Seven years old and he was already been the Papa and Mama several times over when Maria’s daughter had taken off. Living with Maria long enough, he’ll learn love. And loyalty. And trust, just like Zayn had - but now is not the time.

 

Zayn clutches at Jacob’s skinny leg, draws him closer. Jacob doesn’t sit on his lap anymore, not since Zayn returned from New York. He is too old for that now, Zayn supposes, wanted to be a big boy. How quickly that novelty wears off.

 

“C’mere. No one’s gonna take you away, you hear that? No one. Maria, she’s gonna take care of you. And she loves you. Me too.”

 

Jacob looks down at his toes. “Yeah, okay.”

 

“I was like you, when I was little. No parents, you know? But Maria took me in. She didn’t have to, but she did. So promise me something, mijo.”

 

Jacob is bright and he’s not so much a troublemaker as Miguel - being the eldest has given him an acute sense of consequence, and he’ll be loyal to Maria like Zayn has. He’ll do Maria proud best he can. He’s Cubano through and through. He’s compassionate, even as a seven year old. Zayn holds him close, hopes that it’s enough to translate all of the things he can’t say and deep down knows that it still isn’t enough. It’s never enough with boys like them.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Promise me you won’t grow up too fast, yeah?” Zayn rubs a hand know Jacob’s hair, smiling.

 

Later, when Zayn has tucked Jacob back into his tiny bed, he figures his cigarette break is over and crawls into his own bed. Thinks back to his childhood, the hazy, dripping heat, the wealth he was lucky enough to be born into Pakistan, and then later, the bombs feeling like tiny earthquakes in Afghanistan. His Sasa’s face, blurry around the edges, her missing teeth, her flowers. His baba and the mutt that used to lick his fingers - barely a flicker of a memory. There were a lot of children, Zayn remembers, but little childhood.

 

He doesn’t allow himself to think of Amir.  Zayn closes his eyes, waits for sleep, and tries to bury his ghosts deep inside, where they can’t bother him.

 

-

 

He doesn’t expect the image that greets him the next morning, his apron tied lazily around his waist, a banana in hand. Maria turns around, her long skirt twirling as she greets him with a kiss and a tortilla dipped in butter.

 

“Your friends have come to see you, mijito,” Maria says lavishly, her accent lighter in the morning after she’s had her coffee. Black, no sugar.

 

Liam looks out of place with his clean pressed flannel and his blonde hair, and Niall, still as pale as the moon, contrasted everything in sight - the colorful, chipped walls, the food sitting in front of them, Maria, and her turquoise jewelry, Zayn. His smile is bright, however, and Zayn feels a tug of adoration for Niall. He’s missed him the most.

 

“Hey,” Zayn says, distinctly avoiding Liam’s worried gaze and his lips - slightly parted, as if he was in the midst of saying something and stopped abruptly. Instead he goes over and scoops Niall up into his arms, and squeezes until he can feel Niall’s spine pop.

 

“Christ, Zayn,” Niall flushes, shaking his shoulders out. He looks tired. “You are so tan, man.”

 

“Yeah,” Zayn shrugs. “Sun does that to you.”

 

“I guess so,” Niall says. “When I thought of Miami, I never imagined this.”

 

Zayn isn’t sure what to make of that. “How did you picture it?”

 

“I dunno - palm trees and white sand. Hot babes running around, feeding you pineapple?”

 

He laughs. He forgot how much he missed Niall. His first - and perhaps, in some ways, only friend he made in New York. Zayn missed his laugh, his braces, his lanky torso and black rimmed glasses sliding down his skinny nose. He missed the way Niall smelt, and Niall’s smile, and how kindness hid in his haunches. Never had Zayn met someone so completely endearing. It had unnerved him. At first because he thought he had ulterior motives. No one should ever be that trusting.

 

“Yeah, not really,” Zayn thinks of the poorly paved roads, the girls sitting on the steps, their shrill voices clicking in speech so fast they echoed for blocks, the stray dogs, the tiny clusters of Cubans throughout. Yeah, not really.

 

Unless you counted the old rich white people who migrated here to start up country clubs and vacation homes, or those overweight middle class families that came for all the resorts, or the young, over privileged assholes that fly down for spring break and realize it’s only coconuts and sand if you stay on the beaten track, hombre.

 

He looks to Liam properly for the first time and he feels it cut him shrapnel. “Liam.”

 

Liam looks truly nervous, and this makes Zayn strangely satisfied. He looks completely out of his element - and this too, satisfies Zayn.

 

 _Good_ , he thinks bitterly, and it’s too early for to be dredge up all this shit anyway, but for once, he should feel out of place. _God knows I’ve felt that way every fucking day of my life_.

 

“Zayn. Hi,” Liam clears his throat. Maria leaves them standing near the bar to hustle in the back, the sink running for rinsing the _fraises_ , the vat of black beans already simmering on the stove. It’s as if Liam cannot keep his eyes away, and something awful and vindictive flutters inside Zayn. He thought he’d let this go. Evidently not.

 

“So what brings you down here - _ah_!” Zayn is interrupted when Bibsy comes running down the stairs and throws tiny, brown body into his hip, nearly missing his balls and hitting him square in the stomach with her tiny fists. She giggles at his pain and reaches up to kiss him square on the mouth. She’s at that stage where Zayn is her brother, her father and her boyfriend all rolled into one, and he wishes he had payed more attention in Psych 101 because it still unnerves him.

 

“Well good morning, Bibs,” he coos, fingers tickling her insides and she shrieks in delight. He hauls her up above his head and crash dives her, only to dip her back up again. Bibsy can’t stop giggling, and when Zayn sets down, she attempts to crawl back up into his arms again for round two.

 

“Go find abuela, go on,” he pats her mussed, pretty dark hair, wisps of it falling from her braid as she scurries into the kitchen.

 

“Is she...yours?” Liam asks, his eyes impossibly wild.

 

Zayn nearly laughs, except it’s not funny. Because _of course_ , proper, lovely Liam would expect Zayn to have a three year old at nineteen. He glares, “No. She’s Maria’s granddaughter.”

 

“Oh, I just thought - “

 

“What, I’d knock some girl up or something?” Zayn scowls, but shakes his head to prevent from saying anything more. He tells himself he doesn’t want to upset Niall but really  he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop.

 

“Anyway,” Niall interrupts pointedly, looking between the two. Liam is looking down at his hands, blushing an interesting puce color, and Zayn is already itching for his cigarette. “We’re here because we need your help.”

 

“Help? With what?”

 

Niall looks more grim than Zayn’s ever seen him. He picks up his half-eaten pon de huevo. “We, um, need to go rescue Louis and Harry?”

 

“The fuck?” Zayn curses, going stiff when he remembers how much of an asshole he was to Louis’ fiancé and _fuck_ if he found them -

 

“It’s a long story. But we’ve got to go find them, and we figured you knew this part of the country better than us, at least,” Niall looks hopeful. Zayn shakes his head.

 

“I’ve only really been in Miami and New York - “

 

“Please, Zayn,” Liam interrupts. “We’re really worried that something’s happened to them. I’ve never heard Harry like that.”

 

“I - ” Zayn wants to say: I don’t owe you anything. He doesn’t.

 

Instead he sighs and drags a hand over his face. Fucking Harry and Louis and all their shit.  This is turning out to be not a one cigarette kind of morning. This is turning out to be a - a five cigarette kind of morning. “Alright. Let me talk it over with Maria.”

 

“Thank you, mate,” Niall’s  blue eyes clear and wide, so ardent and earnest Zayn can’t help but wilt a little underneath his hopeful, worried gaze.

 

-

 

Maria is more understand that Zayn hopes for. He doesn’t want to go on some hunt for Louis and Harry, already sick with their Romeo Juliet  bullshit. Already he’s had some rich psychopath coming to his family’s home. It’s gone too far.

 

The thing is, Maria loves Harry. Harry without Louis is like watching someone try to walk on one leg, broken and pathetic. Maria, strong willed and bossy as she is, still falls underneath the charm’s of Harry’s dimpled smile, and kept him around the kitchen because he made her laugh. This is how boys like Harry get by. They make you love them.

 

“He’s your friend and he’s in trouble, mijo. You have to go,” she pushes at his stomach with her spoon gently, with pursed lips. Maria values loyalty above all. Zayn doesn’t forget that.

 

“But the restaurant - “

 

“ - will be fine. Pack a bag, and call me if you can. Go,” she orders, but her eyes soften. She reaches up with floury hands to his cheeks, kisses both of them. He smiles and it’s a small smile - it is early, after all, and Zayn can only do so much, but she takes it for what it is, and pats him again on his cheek.

 

-

 

“Nice ride,” Zayn comments, a backpack slung over his shoulder twenty minutes later. It’s another Beamer, dark blue and shiny. Zayn has never been inside of a new car before. “Did daddy buy it for you?”

 

He knows it’s cruel and unnecessary, but he can’t help the comment from rolling off his tongue. Liam bites his lip and turns away, jingling the keys nervously, “No, it’s rented. Harry has my car, actually.”

 

Niall shoots him a small glare as he climbs into the passenger seat, so Zayn takes the back, sitting low and leaning against door. He’s still tired.

 

Liam starts the car. Niall turns around in his seat. “By any chance did Harry tell you what exactly his plan was?”

 

“No. I told him he had to get some balls and make a choice. Looks like he did.”

 

“Um, right. About that,” Niall scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.

 

Zayn narrows his eyes. “What?”

 

“Louis - stole twenty thousand dollars from Robert. Drained whatever was in his checking account and took off with Harry. Which kind of makes them - “

 

“Criminals?” Zayn finishes for him, rubbing his eyes. He really wants a fucking cigarette right about now. “Those fucking idiots.”

 

Niall flinches. “That’s why we’re so - eager to find them. We want to get there first. Harry left a message yesterday but it’s slurred at best and downright inaudible at worst - I think, Mississippi? Or something.”

 

“Why didn’t they just skip back to England where they belong?” Zayn groans, even though he’s pretty sure Niall doesn’t know the answer to that. Neither of them really what goes on in Harry and Louis’ love fucked heads.

 

-

 

They stop right before the Florida Georgia state line. Zayn gets out of the car as quickly as he can, leaving Liam to figure out how to pump the gas alone. Niall goes in the tiny, decrepit mini mart for some snacks. Zayn leans against the trunk of the car and nearly swallows his cigarette.

 

“That’s going to kill you, you know,” Liam squints against sun, his hand coming up to shield his eyes. Zayn takes one look at him before exhaling, smoke pluming around him.

 

“Good,” he says shortly, mainly to extract that pissy look on Liam’s face, one Zayn is familiar with back in New York. Back in New York. He swallows around the thought, and his throat itches now. He crawls back inside the car, lies down horizontally on the seat and says goodbye to Florida.

 

-

 

Memories work like this for Zayn:

 

Meeting Liam for the first time, in their shared common room one day in September. Sweltering, humid, sickly city heat and that strange churning in his stomach. Liam’s brow is sweaty and he says, _Hi I’m Liam How Are You_ , shakes Zayn’s hand.

Zayn had thought, who the fuck shakes hands anyway. White people are weird. His fingers tingled and Liam licked the sweat gathering on his upper lip. He unpacked his things in their cramped dorm, nice things, rich boy things and Zayn felt even worse. Hot. Sticky. Couldn’t breathe. Fuck. He missed home.

 

Liam with his golden brown hair and his pretty brown eyes, framed by blonde eyelashes, wide and innocent in the dark. He reaches his hand out to Zayn, his voice broken from sleep and says, _C’mere_. And Zayn obliged and then Liam had smelt so different, felt so good and Liam had said, _Can I touch you here_ , pressed up against his lips. _Is this okay_ , caressing Zayn’s thighs. _Are you sure_ , hands curling around his dick. No one had ever asked Zayn’s permission before. Everyone always just took. Zayn never realized he had a choice.

 

But it in the end, it was - staying in with Liam before finals to study, taking breaks to watch episodes of Friends on repeat, snuggling up on Liam’s bottom bunk with down comforters and Egyptian cotton (never Zayn’s Walmart sheets and blankets) pressing bones into the mattress, pressing Liam into his skin, holding him there forever. _Making lov_ \- no, fucking him, fucking him until they’re both raw and spent. Liam blushes not just on his cheeks, but everywhere. His neck, his chest, his legs wrapping around Zayn’s waist, everything pink and flushed and alive and beautiful. Liam looks at him like he’s so fucking gorgeous and he’s not, alright. He’s not. Liam looking at him with those pretty brown eyes and Zayn staring back at Amir, caked in blood and finger to his lips, _hush little baby, don’t you cry_.

 

Zayn wakes up, covered in a cold sweat. Dusk has fallen. They keep driving.

 

-

 

Later, Zayn awakes a second time because the car has come to a stop. His face is as clammy as his hands and there’s a crick in his neck from leaning against the glass. He pulls himself up and out of the car.

 

“What are we doing?” Zayn asks to no one in particular, rubbing his eyes.

 

“We’re at a campsite. Gonna stay here,” Liam explains, facing away from Zayn and taking out a small cooler.

 

“Here?” Zayn looks around to see Niall rolling out a sleeping bag on the ground.

 

“Didn’t expect you to be the one complaining about the lack of hotel,” Liam replies shortly, and Zayn sours at that, because there isn’t anything wrong with sleeping outside and besides, that isn’t what he meant at all. He’s not sure what he meant, but it wasn’t that. He rolls his eyes, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket.

 

Liam folds out sandwiches on the old picnic bench, the smoke rising in tiny tendrils as it sits at the edge of the table. Niall eats Zayn’s pork sandwich for him, even though he hasn’t been a practicing Muslim since he was probably eleven - Liam didn’t know that and it was comforting to see the exasperated blush color his cheeks.

 

Later, Niall volunteers to sleep outside because there are only two places to sleep in the back of the car. Zayn quickly realizes the implication that Liam and him would be sharing some kind of enclosed space and there was no way in hell that was happening.

 

“Well, you can kip out here with me, mate,” Niall suggests, eyeing the growing, tangible tension clouding between them. Zayn sighs, rolling out his bedding next to Niall, waiting for the sun to set. Liam puts away the rest of the food with pursed lips, and every time Zayn tries to catch his eye, he flushes and looks away.

 

Anger simmers just underneath Zayn’s skin as he tries to listen to Niall tell stories about New York and NYU, small vignettes about venturing out to different nightclubs and his Chem II class and his absolute bitch of a partner. When the conversation turns to Harry, Zayn feels himself frown. Soon Liam returns to their conversation, and this is when Zayn takes his cue to have a smoke break before bed. He wanders off between the trees, the sky a pretty lavender. He tries to imagine what the tide is like this time in Florida.

 

He’s been aware, probably before Niall even knew, about his crush on Harry Styles, ever since he stepped off that flight from London in his dirty Chuck Taylors and hair so curly he could barely see through it. Zayn had liked Harry alright, and he liked Louis too, as he became quick to understand that they were a sort of packaged deal. He had met Niall the previous day, who had made bee-line to befriend the two other British students. Niall, even with his Irish brogue and country naivete, had never been an outsider the way  Zayn had been at NYU.

 

Harry had always had his head too far up Louis’ ass to ever consider anyone else’s feelings, and this made Zayn angry, because Harry was so careless with his affections and Zayn watched, _watched_ as Niall became enamoured. By the middle of their freshman year, Niall was gone for it and by the time Zayn had been comfortable enough with saying anything, it was far too late to make him see reason.

 

Zayn saunters over to them, dead cigarette in the palm of his hand as he chucks it away in their pseudo trash bag.

 

Liam stands against the trunk of the car with his arms crossed, interrupting Niall mid sentence. “You don’t need to make excuses for him, you know,” Liam says quietly, but the firmness in his voice is there. Niall looks over to him, mouth open as he’d been explaining the aftermath of the Louis-Harry split last fall. “S’not like he really deserves it.”

 

“I wasn’t - I didn’t say,” Niall starts as Liam crosses his arms. Niall is glaring fiercely at Liam, his blue-gray eyes hurt and unsure.

 

“Excuses? What? What has Harry done?” Zayn rounds on Niall, who breaks his stare and looks vaguely startled by Zayn’s demands. He looks hesitant to say anything. “Well? Did he do something to you, Ni?”

 

“What?” Niall sputters, his face coloring like a spring rose. “No. He didn’t do _anything_. You are always so quick to assume Harry’s done something - “

 

Zayn shakes his head vehemently, because _yes_ , Harry’s always doing something, and Zayn’s sick of it, alright, sick of the wounded way Niall stares off into the distance, the way his eyes chase the last remnants of Harry’s casual touch. It makes Zayn sick with guilt that isn't his.

 

“Because he’s Harry and he can be a oblivious fuck,” Zayn argues and Niall opens his mouth to retort before closing it again. "Tell me what he did."

 

Finally, he takes a deep breath. “We slept together,” he looks down at his knees. “A few times.”

 

Something akin to devastation seeps into Zayn’s gut. He curses under his breath. “God fucking damnit, Niall, seriously? Why? Why would you let him -”

 

“ _Let_ him? I wanted it too, you know - “ Niall blushes a deeper red, thumb jabbing at the center of his chest.

 

Zayn cuts him off. “You don’t fucking get it, do you? Harry is in _love_ with Louis. He'll never love you - he doesn't even consider you an option, don't you understand? You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

 

“Like you know anything about loving anybody,” Niall curses, his eyes clouded as he stands up, holding his arms around his body like he might break. His voice catches and breaks as he swallows, and Zayn just wants to throttle him because he looks so young. “You're just talking shite you don't know about.”

 

“Listen. If you think for a second because Harry fucked you a few times that he’s going to come running back after we rescue them then you need to screw your head on straight, Ni. Because that’s not going to fucking happen.”

 

Niall takes one look at Zayn, shaking his head as he turns around and starts to walk off.

 

“Niall!” Zayn calls out, but Niall doesn’t turn around. “Fuck,” he curses, swinging around and punching the picnic table. Liam is still standing there, pale faced and eyes wide.

 

“What the fuck are you looking at, Liam?” Zayn rounds on him. “Well?”

 

Liam just shakes his head before following Niall’s foot trail into the thicket of woods. Zayn pulls out of another cigarette and wishes he’d never opened his mouth. Guilt sets in like the dusk settling around them, blackness rolling in like dust. He’d never meant to yell, but Niall just makes his so angry when he gets his head all fucked up with Harry _this_ and Harry _that_ and fuck it. 

-

 

He can’t sleep because of his nap in the car, but he settles down on his bedding and pretends to sleep anyhow. He can hear Liam and Niall, talking low underneath their breath so Zayn can’t hear them. He wants to snap at them to shut up, but instead he bites his lip until it nearly bleeds and rolls over.

 

Liam settles into the car a half hour later, and Zayn stills considerably when he feels Niall crawl into his sleeping bag a few minutes later. Zayn changes his breathing to imitate sleep, already planning to sneak off for a much needed cigarette after they both fall asleep.

 

Zayn doesn’t recognize it for what it is at first, thinks Niall’s just got a running nose, but he turns around and in the glow of the moonlight he can see the wet tracks on Niall’s face and thinks, _fuck._ Distantly, somewhere in the back of his mind he sees a bloody index finger held to a pair of lips, and then he’s crouching behind a trashcan, ten years old, _hush little baby, don’t you cry_ -

 

“Ni,” he whispers, and Niall startles, hands coming up to wipe his face hurriedly as Zayn inches over. His hand hesitant over Niall’s shoulder before he tugs him closer; whatever Niall’s anger was at him earlier, it’s disappeared now because he simply rolls over, like a rag doll. “Hey, come on,” he hums into Niall’s hair.

 

This doesn’t soothe him particularly, as his body gives a strange convulsion against the linear length of Zayn’s torso before he sucks in a shuddery breath. Zayn’s arm curls around Niall’s back, tucking him closer, and Niall hiccups against his chest.

 

“I’m so fucked,” Niall whispers.

 

“No, don’t say that.”

 

He can feel Niall shake his head against his shoulder. “I am, though. I never love anyone who can properly love me back.”

 

“I’m so shitty for saying that. I was just. Fuck. I’m sorry,” Zayn blubbers, and if anyone is ever going to get an apology from him, a sincere one, it’s going to be Niall.

 

“You were right, though. You are right, I mean. What Harry and I did, that doesn’t mean anything to him. Not like it means to me, anyway. Sometimes I feel like I’m so good at lying to him that I believe it too, but then it always comes back and I - “ Niall’s voice stops abruptly and a low whine escapes his mouth. Zayn bites his tongue.

 

Niall whispers, “I thought when Lou left, I’d finally get my chance. He could finally see that I’d been there all along. How fucked up is that? God.”

 

Zayn shakes his head. “That’s not, no, it’s not fucked up. Harry’s always - he’s not completely innocent in this, Ni, you should know. I wish - “ he bites his lip suddenly, because why is he even saying this right now, “I wish he had loved you, too.”

 

“S’not the way life works, though,” Niall supplies desolately. “I wanted you there, at school. I felt really fucking lost without you.”

 

 _Me too_ , Zayn wants to say, but he doesn’t, because it’s too honest and he’s not even sure what that means, anyway. Finally, he settles on, “I’m here now,”

 

“Please,” Niall rubs his nose in the cotton of Zayn’s nightshirt, “Don’t disappear again.”

 

Zayn feels like he’s choking on his own heart, large and obtrusive it lodges in his throat. He swallows thickly and doesn’t reply, waiting for Niall’s breathing to even out and the tears on his face to dry and become sticky. Zayn still isn’t tired, not really, so he tugs Niall closer and stares up at the stars, looking for some sort of answer and wishes he didn’t have so many fucking questions.

 

-

 

Dreams come to him when he’s half-asleep, half-awake: _like you know anything about loving anybody_ , Niall accuses, face bloodied with an useless American war and his blonde hair wet across his forehead as he screams at Zayn. Zayn, who is ten years old with weathered leather sandals as he buckles under the weight of Niall’s screams, _like you know anything about loving anybody_.

 

 _I do_ , ten year old Zayn protests, and his vision screws up as Amir’s face floats into view, childlike hands gripping at Zayn’s shirt as he begs, _please, please, don’t leave me back in Kabul, please, please, remember me too. I love you, too._

 

 _I do_ , eighteen year old Zayn protests, pushing Amir’s face away and thinking of Liam, living in the curve of his spine and the swell of his bum hidden underneath a thin, expensive, cotton sheet. Zayn, brushing away the golden bangs off his forehead, using his hair as an anchor as he pulled him forward, _c’mere_ , lost in thought. _I do_ , Zayn whispers weakly, protesting as he cups Liam’s face in his hands, his pale skin so pretty underneath the murky darkness of Zayn’s own pigment.

 

 _Like you know anything about loving anybody_ , Niall accuses, and Liam turns to stone, crumbling in Zayn’s grasp like the stonewall of his Sasa’s gardens, hot broken stone under the Afghan sun.

 

-

 

Zayn can’t breathe and his hands won’t stop shaking. “Stop the car,” he moans, before sitting up and ripping at his seatbelt. Liam looks in the rearview mirror, eyebrows disappearing behind the blonde fringe.

 

“You okay?” Niall turns around, fingers curling over the seat. Zayn finally unclicks his buckle. It’s too hot and his throat is dry like he’s suffocating on dust.

 

He shakes his head, trying to pull on the car door handle even though they’re going nearly sixty.

 

“Stop the fucking car,” he nearly yells, and he can feel the hysterical pressure building in his throat, thick on his tongue. Liam slams on his brakes and nearly sends Niall into the dash. Zayn falls out of the car, knees creaking before he picks up and starts to walk out in the trees, gut churning like he might puke. It was just a dream, he tries to tell himself - just a dream.

 

His fingers are slippery with sweat as he wipes his head, arms bracing a tree. Breathe, breathe, breathe, oh _fuck_ -

 

His mind is reeling with memories of Liam and the first time they had fucked on the floor of their dorm, sleepy with finals looming and the way Liam’s body was outlined by the city lights.The feeling of him around Zayn, everywhere, knee caps tucked between Zayn’s elbows as he bottomed out inside of him; his hips impossibly warm but shoulders chilled to touch, hair spread out against an old review packet, lips bitten red and wet, shaped in a perfect o. Zayn looking at Liam thinking _holy fuck._ Thinking _I’m going to have nightmares for weeks_ and chanting yes, yes, _yes_ , over and over again, to counteract all those _no’s_ from before.

 

It hits like a load of bricks against Zayn’s chest and he honestly thinks, _I’m dying_. He hears footsteps but doesn’t register that someone is coming towards him until there’s a hand on his shoulder and he flips around, fist flying before he can understand that there aren’t bombs falling, knives casting off litres of blood like it’s dirty, and he’s in the middle of bumfuck mid-west America, not Kabul.

 

Liam’s cradling his jaw and Zayn almost apologizes before he exclaims, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

 

“Don’t fucking sneak up on people like that,” Zayn argues.

 

“You are such an _asshole_. I was checking to see if you were alright,” Liam defends, his tone staunch and nostrils flaring as he wipes the blood from his nose. “God, Zayn, why do you hate me so much?”

 

 _“Why_?” Zayn surges forward angrily, a tiny monster in his chest humming as Liam takes a step back, “Why? I could tell you it’s because you’ve roped me into this stupid fucking rescue mission, or maybe it’s because I’ve been stuck in Miami for the past year doing absolutely _nothing_ , no thanks to you, or maybe because you’ve come back to see me without a fucking apology for all that shit you put me through last year. _Why_? Maybe it’s because you’re some fucked up white kid, Liam, and I don’t want to put up with you any longer. Maybe it’s because you are so selfish, so fucking _naive_ to how the world works. You've been given everything, and worked for none of it. Maybe it’s because I was your fucking experiment - i was just _exotic_ scholarship kid to you. Fucking,” Zayn spits, regaining breath after a second. “Fuck you.”

 

“That’s, that’s a load of - you weren’t - you were _never_ some experiment.”

 

“Are you listening to yourself? That’s exactly what I was to you. Stop lying to yourself.”

 

“I’m not. You're angry at me because I'm not poor or dark skinned like you are. You think I'm at fault for your problems.”

 

“Yeah? Say that again, you stupid piece of shit. Say it again, how you loved to show me off as your charity friend, that is, until your father - ”

 

Liam flushes, “You leave me father out of this - ”

 

Zayn throws his hands up, “No. You need to hear this. You were on your little wild streak to rebel against Mommy and Daddy and decided to take me to one of your benefits. Don’t fucking look at me like that, Liam, I’m not fucking stupid. Your father yanked my scholarship to get rid of me. He’s a trustee, and you bet he can do that, and he wanted me gone. I was too male, too Muslim, too poor for his precious future legacy. So he did away with me.”

 

“S’not true,” Liam protests, his voice faltering. “Danielle is on scholarship and she’s black. He likes her alright.”

 

Zayn just might strangle him. “Liam, you fucking idiot. You think just because Danielle is black means your father isn’t racist is a load of shit. I’m from Pakistan. You realize that, right? I'm not from Iraq, but no matter - this useless war has erased all of that. We're all the same to you. Anyone who looks like me is automatically stereotyped as a  _terrorist_. No matter if they're innocent, or good, or grew up in _Miami_ ,” he breathes, wiping the spittle from his chapped lips. “You knew your father sunk my education to protect your reputation and you stood and helped me _pack my bags_. So you come to my home, to the place I feel accepted and you drag me on some goosechase, thinking you have the right to look wounded and hurt and _fuck that_ , Liam. Fuck all of that. You have no right.”

 

“I - I made a mistake,” Liam swallows, and his cheeks are bright red against his pale face. “I made lots of mistakes. But you were never one of them. I never thought you were an experiment, no matter what you think. You were just so - ” He chokes, rubbing his hand over his face.

 

“So what, Liam?”

 

“So - so angry. All the time. At the world. At the education system and at the war and all those times you’d see those ceo’s and lawyers walk past the city bums without a glance, you were angry at your teachers and at your situation and the fact you couldn’t afford the same things I could. I watched you, Zayn, God, I spent every day watching you, trying to learn what makes you angry so I wouldn’t piss you off, until I realized you were angry at everything. At everyone. You were angry at me, and all I wanted...all I wanted was for you to like me. Shit. That’s all I wanted.”

 

“Yeah, well, you fucked that up, didn’t you?” Zayn can feel the spiteful jab of his tongue as it cuts through Liam’s skin and he sucks in a harsh breath, almost like a hiccup. He looks up at Zayn for the first time since he came to Florida. His brown eyes are just as fucking beautiful as they were that first day in the sweltering New York University dorms, shaking Zayn’s clammy hand and unpacking all his expensive shit.

 

Finally, Liam nods. “I did. I’m so sorry. I can never explain to you how fucking sorry I am. I wish, I want -” Liam looks up again, hopeful, and Zayn can feel him begin to say something stupid, so he shakes his head. Cuts him off. He doesn't want him anymore. He can't want him anymore.

 

“Don’t. I don’t want your shit, anymore,” Zayn runs a hand through his hair, finding his cigarettes in his sweatshirt pocket and tucking one neatly between his lips.

 

For a split second, Zayn wants to kiss him. Liam is freckled and blonde and achingly familiar, but then the moment passes. Finally, Liam says, “I’ll always want you, though.”

 

Before Zayn’s able to exhale a cloud of smoke and retort, Liam’s already walking back to the car.

 

-

 

They find Harry at a motel in Ashland, Mississippi. It’s dark out, just past ten in the evening, and Zayn’s mouth is still sour from the words he exchanged with Liam and a questionable package of powdered doughnuts. The drizzle that had plagued their drive is turning into some kind of downpour.

 

“That’s him, that’s him,” Liam chants as  they pull up into a parking spot, a small undefined lump sitting on the concrete steps by the front of the motel. Niall opens his door before the car comes to a stop and flees towards Harry.

 

Harry stands up and envelopes Niall in a hug, much like the one Zayn had given to him upon their arrival at his home in Florida. Zayn pulls a cigarette from behind his ear. Niall’s laughing and Harry’s crying, and the air is swampy and bitter, humid but nearly cold, the moon distant and looming as it creates patterns in the sky.

 

Niall’s babbling away until there’s a sudden drawn of breath from his left and Zayn whips around at the disquiet, eerily still as Harry starts to cry harder in earnest. He clutches at the bones in Niall’s back like he’s an anchor, sinking into him as his feet slip on the gravel.

 

“Haz, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Niall prods, as Liam draws nearer, hands by his sides and clenched tightly. Zayn can see the whites of his knuckles, skin stretched tautly over the bone. “Harry, come on, say something. You’re...you’re scaring me.”

 

“Louis,” he moans, holding on to fistfuls of Niall’s shirt. “Robert came back and - they're gone. He took him. They're - ” he swallows, looking into Niall's horrified blue eyes, "Gone."

 

“What did Robert do? Where’s Louis?” Zayn cuts Niall off, nicotine buzzing through to his fingers as he steps closer. It’s getting harder to hear over the rain. “Come on, speak up. What fucking happened, Harry?”

 

Harry wipes at his face. “Robert found us and took Louis with him. Said he’d put us both in jail for stealing if Louis didn’t go with him.”

 

“Why didn’t you just give him the money back?” Liam sputters incredulously.

 

Harry shakes his head. “We’d already spent some of it on the girl’s plane tickets back to their father in England...we couldn’t...we couldn’t pay him back in full for what we had taken. I didn’t know what to do.”

 

“God fucking damnit, Haz,” Zayn curses, and Harry looks up at him, licking his lips as rain water hits his pale face. “You didn’t know what to do? Fuck, you let that man take Louis with him and you didn’t stop him? What the hell is the matter with you?”

 

“Zayn, enough,” Liam puts his arm on Zayn’s bicep but he shakes it off, stepping closer to Harry because who the hell just gives up like that.

 

“No, not enough! Their stupidity has gotten us hundreds of miles from home and we come to find out that you - you fucking let Louis go? You are such a fucking coward, Harry,” Zayn spits and Harry shakes his head, eyebrows scrunching up as he’s about to retort, hair clinging to his forehead.

 

Zayn isn’t sure what makes him do it, but all of a sudden a few words tumble out of Harry’s mouth and enough, enough, _enough of your shit_. Zayn’s fist comes out and smacks Harry right in the jaw, wet skin hitting wet skin and Zayn’s knuckles hurt, and someone’s screaming at him to stop, and his vision has turned red because how could someone just stand there - it’s almost as bad as hiding behind a couple of trash cans and watching the life drain out of someone’s eyes and fuck.

 

He falls back, rain dripping into his eyes as Harry clutches his jaw and Liam’s hands are pressing on Zayn’s chest, pushing him away. Niall looks like he might start crying too, as he holds Harry up, mud specks on his face from where Harry had nearly slipped from the impact of Zayn’s punch.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you,” Liam hisses, slamming Zayn’s shoulder into the navy side of the bmw, his murky blonde bangs sticking to his forehead. His eyebrows are drawn up in worry and he looks into Zayn’s eyes like he has no idea who the fuck he’s talking to. For a moment, Zayn doesn’t either.

 

Zayn pulls on the lapels of Liam’s cardigan, drawing him near and pressing their lips together. Liam tastes like the chocolate donut he ate nearly an hour ago, like he hasn’t brushed his teeth since morning, like he hasn’t said a word for weeks and Zayn remembers like lightening how much he used to crave tasting Liam, how different parts of his body tasted differently, how good he felt underneath Zayn’s mouth. Zayn closes his eyes, squeezing them shut best he can, giving into the soft press of Liam’s mouth before pulling away.

 

He wipes the rain from his mouth. There’s a small whine that escapes the back of Liam’s throat and he swallows thickly, cheeks flushed again the pale of his skin, tired from so much driving. Zayn’s breathing is labored and he doesn’t really know what to do with himself, or how to look at Liam when he looks so wrecked like that, because of Zayn, his mouth, his hands.

 

He moves around the side of car where Niall is holding Harry and clears his throat.

 

Liam speaks first, voice firm by his side, “If he just left, we can catch up to them.”

 

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know. He was driving a silver Mercedes,.” Harry wipes his face, jaw flushed pink where Zayn had hit him. “Fuck.”

 

Liam jostles his keys and Zayn crawls into the front seat.

 

“We’re going, then. To find Louis,” Niall confirms, as he prods Harry into the back seat, hands so soft, careful, like Harry might break. His hair is matted down and his shirt is sticking to his thin body, so lithe it looks like it might snap in half. Zayn tries not to reach for his cigarettes. He nods gravely, feeling the soreness behind his eyes. Niall’s mouth sets into a firm line and he looks aged beyond his years. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

 

-

 

They drive for what seems like hours, the rain hitting the windshield harshly as they navigate the highway. They enter Georgia and the lights on the byway are getting fewer and farther in between.

 

In the backseat, Harry is curled up with his head in Niall’s lap, Niall’s fingers running through his hair, forehead to crown like a rhythm. Zayn bites his lip, chapped and salty from earlier. They’re soggy and sore from sitting in their seats too long, the shittiest reunion he could have ever dreamed up. Niall looks up after he sees Zayn sneaking a glance at him. There’s a beat of silence that only exists between the two, and it’s like - it’s like his pain is so tangible, like all that trapped want and need is nearly suffocating Zayn, pressing tightly on his throat as he tries to swallow. He can’t. Niall holds his gaze a second longer, his fingers molding to the tarnished grooves of Harry’s face like they were made for that very reason.

 

Nearly imperceptible, the way he shakes his head. But he does. Niall closes his eyes, and there’s a ghost of weathered smile on his face before he turns to look outside at the haunting, dark pillars of trees as they line each side of the road.

 

The way he smiles is knowing, sharp, Zayn realizes as he turns back around in his seat. Niall isn’t a dumb kid, never _been_ a  dumb kid - not since he outsmarted nearly everywhere in their Intro to Chem class their freshman year; he might talk slow and laugh easy but he - Niall _knows_ how fucked he is. Zayn doesn’t like the acceptance in the way he holds Harry, the way he loves Harry so fucking unconditionally and Harry pulls that olbivious innocence bullshit because it’s easier than rejecting Niall’s affections, than dealing with it.

 

Zayn doesn’t look back around at the two of them again. He can’t watch Niall wipe Harry’s tears again and soothe him back to sleep, to calm him, because that type of unrequited devotion makes him nearly sick to his stomach. It reminds him of Amir, and his childish, naked laugh when they would trample around Kabul as children. The memory is dull around the edges now, just a soft twist in his gut, but it still burns. It’s too hot in the car.

 

The road is dark now, save for the straight bright beams of Liam’s headlights as they cut through the darkness. Zayn looks for deer as they pass, feeling every curve of the winding road in his core as they whip around the highway.

 

Harry sits up and rubs his eyes until they’re nearly pink. There is a bruise shading on the underside of his jaw where Zayn hit him.

 

“Did Lou have his phone on him when he left with Robert?” Niall asks suddenly when Harry pulls out his iPhone and sets it on his thigh.

 

Harry nods, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

 

“We can - we can try to see if it’s on and we can try and find him with your phone,” Niall says hurriedly, grabbing the phone off his thigh and pressing on buttons on the screen. Zayn cranes around in his seat again, resting his chin on the corner. Niall has pulled his glasses on again, turning on the ceiling light in the back. “What’s his number?”

 

They find Louis on the little map on his phone, sitting idly in a rest stop that’s only a mile away from them. Harry crawls up front, nearly sitting in Zayn’s lap as he urges Liam to go, go, _fucking go_ , before Louis disappears again. Zayn can feel his pulse quicken under his fingers, thinking, here we go, and he’s not scared, but there is a sense of foreboding as Liam steps on the pedal, knuckles nearly white.

 

They pull in. It rains harder, like buckets, and this is why Zayn sticks with Florida. Florida where he knows, expects. Hot, humid, sitting on the tip of his tongue when he speaks Spanish during the evening rush, or thunderstorms throughout the summertime like clockwork. This, this feels like drowning.

 

“There!” Harry shouts, pointing at the BMW tucked in the corner, shrouded by trees. They pull up, Liam cursing mildly under his breath as he puts the car in park. Harry scrambles to get out before anyone can knock some sense into him or even think of a plan of what do, because he’s a love sick idiot. Naturally, Zayn follows him, shielding his line of sight with his hand because he’s wet again, so fucking drenched there’s mud crawling up his dirty jeans as he sloshes after Harry.

 

Harry runs to the passenger side of the car and beats on the window with his fists; his voice is barely audible over the rain as he screams. A moment later the door opens and Louis steps out, looking raggedly thin and tiny in stature compared to Harry. They embrace, and it looks like Zayn remembers it back at school: two bodies, one soul, and he finally understands why Niall has never said anything.

 

Louis is babbling and Harry is holding his cheeks in his hands, nodding as Zayn steps closer, pulling Louis into a hug. He smells different, leather seats and like fear. Zayn remembers that smell well. Most of his memories are tainted with it.

 

“You okay, mate?” Zayn asks as Niall catches up with them and Liam hurries around the front of the car, leaving it idle. Zayn can hear the distant roar of a river nearby, just beyond where the silver car is parked.

 

“We’re gonna take you away, okay? We’re gonna go back home and he won’t find us, I promise, Lou, I promise,” Harry babbles, nearly snapping Louis’ jaw as he he clutches at him. Louis blinks as rain water his his face before nodding. Zayn cannot tell if he’s crying or not. Harry certainly is.

 

“Where’s Robert, Lou?” Harry looks around worriedly, but there is no time for Louis to answer him.

 

Zayn hears him first, because he’s grown up listening and looking for danger like this, sniffing it out between rubble and orphans and the streets of Kabul; there’s a sixth sense, almost, the feeling of the streets, that turn in your gut. Zayn listens far more than any of the others because he knows what silence sounds like, what fear sounds like, and how it tastes so bitterly between your teeth.

 

Robert is bounding up to him, his jacket crumpled and his face wet; he looks years older and half crazed. Louis backs up into Harry, slipping in the mud. Niall moves in front of Louis, his cheeks flushed. Zayn moves when he sees the gun. He can’t see anything but the gun.

 

“I thought I told you not to come after him, you _fucking_ idiot,” Robert screams, brandishing the weapon and pointing his other hand at Harry. “He’s coming home with me, and you better be lost before I throw you in jail.”

 

“Why don’t we put _the gun_ down - ” Liam’s voice shakes, trying to sound sure as he moves his hands in a calm motion. But Zayn’s got no time for that. His walks up to Robert, point blank, his mind a long angry stream of _fuck you, you pitiful bastard, fuck you and all you’ve done_. His first lands Robert square in the jaw and the gun goes off in the sky, once.

 

Zayn thinks he hears someone scream, and for a second - for a agonizing moment he’s in an alleyway again, ten years old behind some trash cans as shouts echo around him and he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he just moves his hands around the collar of Robert’s shirt and pushes him down, struggling to reach for the weapon out his clammy hands.

 

They struggle, and in the back of his head he can hear Niall shouting, Louis crying, Harry babbling again and Liam speaking - there are hands on his back for a brief second before they’re gone again and they leave a burning imprint on Zayn’s back as his blood rushes in his ears. He’s got dirt in his eyes and rain in his mouth as he spits off to the side.

 

The gun slips against his jaw, hitting him so hard he sees stars before he grips Robert’s hand in an attempt to push it away from both of them and then Zayn realizes he’s shouting, too, screaming bloody fucking murder and he has no idea what he’s even saying, if he’s even speaking English anymore or if he’s just yelling because he can’t fucking take anymore of this. Where this rage comes from, he doesn’t know - life, maybe, but it bottles up inside Zayn as he tries to gain dominance and fails because Robert is a big man, and this is when Zayn realizes that maybe he’s not going to walk away from this. All these years of missing death when he was a little boy and then living in near poverty in Florida and this, this is his demise, really.

 

He never took a second to think that it could be Robert’s. But then -

 

\- the gun goes off, still tight in Robert’s hands as they slip around the trigger, jostling it enough to shoot. He doesn’t realize that there are two bullet holes through the man’s chin until he sees a thin line of red dripping from his mouth in cascades, diluted with dirt. His hands go slack and Zayn feels the sinking in his abdomen, like an anchor, before he rolls off to the side, neck lolling in pain. The headlights from the blue bmw are too bright in his face and Liam peers down at him, covered in mud and rain, looking in Zayn’s eyes like he’s searching for a soul.

 

 _Dammit Liam_ , Zayn thinks to himself, and then he doesn’t think anymore after that.

 

-

 

He can remember it clearly: Zayn wakes up in Liam’s expensive sheets, rolling over and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Liam is hunched over his laptop in his tiny white boxers, his skin nearly translucent as they overcast skies invade their privacy. There are shadows on his skin, like stories. Zayn can see them from here. Liam is typing away, a piece of bread tucked between his lips as he scans the screen, shuffling for his notes. Zayn’s heart pounds. _You are so fucked. You are so, so, fucked_.

 

Liam tiptoes his fingers down Zayn’s spine until they settle on his hip, kneading the soft flesh there. He lies on his side, looking up at Zayn. His bone structure is so neat and symmetrically. That one required art class Zayn is taking is like studying thousands of Liam’s: there is a likeness between him and Adonis, or David, or the renaissance cherubs, lovely in their mischievous glory. Liam settles against his pillow, and then he says, _tell me sad stories about your childhood_. Zayn doesn’t. He kisses Liam instead, and vows to forget.

 

He can remember it as if it were yesterday: Liam whispers, _I think I love you_. Zayn feigns sleep, pretends he doesn’t hear him. Feels his heart beat in sync to the steady lull of Liam’s breathing, one two three, one two three.

 

-

 

Zayn opens his eyes and it’s still raining. He feels like he might choke on the rain and the only thing he can smell is dirt and gunpowder, so overwhelming he coughs and turns over. There are hands on his back again, different ones, smaller than before. He blinks. It’s Louis.

 

In the light of the headlights, there is a nasty cut on Louis' cheekbone and he must have burst a vein, because his eye is bloody and gruesome. There is a bruise around his ear and his eyes are wild, too bright for Zayn to look directly at.

 

“You were only out for a few minutes,” Louis says. “Barely that.”

 

“My head fucking hurts,” Zayn groans, rubbing his finger into his temples and trying to release the pound headache. “Where are they? What happened?”

 

Louis swallows harshly, fingerprint marks around his neck bobbing. “Robert is dead. After he realized I would not leave Harry for him, he put a gun to his mouth and threw himself into the river. Do you understand?”

 

All Zayn can hear is the rain for a second. He licks his lips and then says, “Yes, completely.”

 

Louis pulls him into a tight hug and everything just fucking hurts. “I'm so happy you're fucking alive, mate,” he whispers wetly into Zayn’s neck.

 

He helps Zayn back up, nearly stumbles under his weight as Zayn leans into him, head spinning. He can feel a trickle of blood on his chin that he wipes away.

 

Louis leads him to the car. Zayn is barely able to discern a dark stain in the back of his trousers, as dark and murky as it is. He wonders if Harry knows.

 

Zayn is sitting the front seat again, free of his jeans and shoes, a blanket from the back of trunk wrapped around his frame. Louis stands by the open passenger door, arms wrapped around his waist like he’s barely holding himself together. Zayn has underestimated his strength greatly. He always thought Louis was too selfish, too wrapped up in his dreams and Harry to even take notice of someone else, but that’s not true anymore, not really. Louis looks like someone who has lost it all. Who has sacrificed every limb and organ he’s got left to offer. Zayn feels the pull to reach out and hold him, but he refrains.

 

The boys come out of the brush a second later, and Zayn watches as they start Robert’s car before pushing it into the river. Harry staggers into Louis like he’s missing body parts, and Louis holds him, softens the dread that fills everyone. Liam looks stern, careful as he peels off most of his wet clothes, stuffing them in the back as Niall and Harry copy him. Louis crawls in, clothes and all, opening the blanket up to let Harry curl underneath his arm.

 

“The water will wash away any evidence, and Lou and Harry will be long gone in London before they even report him missing,” Liam says as he starts the car. “No one will ever know we were here.”

 

Zayn nods.

 

“Are you okay?” The softness of Liam’s palm finds Zayn’s hand resting in his lap.

 

Zayn swallows, “I will be. Where are we going?”

 

Liam looks firm as they pull out of the woods and he starts down the road again. Zayn is shaking with nerves with the chill but he can see - Liam is resolute, firm in spot as he speeds down the highway, the light making cylinder holes through the darkness. He turns to Zayn, eyes flashing for a moment before saying, “home.”


	3. Morning Clementine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the sunrise of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original warnings apply for this chapter, as well as explicit discussion of PTSD, survivor-guilt, talks of rape and victim-shaming, domestic violence, and alcohol abuse. 
> 
> If there is a warning/tag I have not added that you think I should have, please let me know and I will!

Morning Clementine [3]

_When the evening shadows and the stars appear,_

_And there is no one there to dry your tears,_

_I could hold you for a million years_

_To make you feel my love_.

 

 _Make You Feel My Love_ Adele

When Liam says “Home,” he means 1600 miles away in New York City. They’ve been driving for hours, Louis finds himself unable to keep track of the time as he dozes in and out of consciousness. The city skyline comes into view, the missing spot always present in Louis’ mind where the twin towers used to reside, a hole in the heart of New York.

They park in front of an unfamiliar building in an affluent part of Manhattan. “It’s my Great Aunt’s apartment. I have a key, go on upstairs.”

Louis follows Harry and his whole body feels timid, shy, and sore. He can’t stop pressing against the tiny spotted bruises along the column of his neck, testing them, wondering if they truly hurt. He’s been confused about pain for such a time now he has no idea if he’s pain or if he’s just alive.

Harry holds onto him like he might lose him. Louis doesn’t blame him. Inside, the apartment is dark except for the city outside. Louis will explore its grandeur later. Instead, he finds the couch, strips off his stiff, dried clothing and crawls underneath the cashmere throw.

“I’ll find us another set of blankets,” Harry informs him, stalking into the hallway like he’s been here before. Louis can’t find the energy in him to respond. Instead he looks outside the floor to ceiling windows, watching the city twinkle. His throat is incredibly sore.

Finally, when they settle together on the couch, Louis asks, “Where are they?” referring to Liam, Niall, and Zayn.

“Liam took them back to his flat near school. He’ll be around tomorrow morning to check on you. He wants to take you to the doctor.”

Louis is unable to be anything but apathetic towards all of this information. He can’t process anything. Instead, he blinks a couple of times, looking at the soft expanse of Harry’s pale cheek, still unable to ever get enough of him, and then he falls asleep.

-

He doesn’t end up going to the doctor with Liam the next morning, because Louis ends up sleeping through the entirety of the day and doesn’t awake until seven that evening. Harry is in the kitchen, tinkering around with different glassware, from the sounds of it, and Louis is sleep-warm and can’t do much than blink. He’s incredibly sore, so much so that it feels as if his muscles are made of wooden splinters, crackling into one another.

He’s wrapped so conservatively that he assumes Liam had been over at some point that day. It’s the first thing he manages to say, stirring Harry out of his reverie. “Liam just about swaddled me, didn’t he?” he chuckles hoarsely.

Harry comes and sits on the end of the couch, Louis’ legs tucked behind his back. He looks incredibly tired. “Yeah, he did, he was worried.”

Louis’ smile falters, “Yeah,” he concedes.

“Look, Lou –” Harry starts, before taking a deep breath. “I want to talk about this. What happened. To you – and, us. We need to.”

Louis purses his lips, feeling the waves of dread sink into his lungs like lead.

“But,” Harry continues, “I want it to be your terms.”

“My terms?”

“I want you to talk about this when you’re ready to talk about it. But I want you to promise me you’ll talk about it.”

“Harry, I...”

“I just can’t lose you, Lou,” Harry finishes, eyes cloudy. He shrugs his shoulders dismissively, “I can’t lose you, ‘kay? Can’t.”

Louis sits up, bones creaking with the effort. He curls towards Harry, unblemished cheek against the bony knot of shoulder. “You won’t. I’m right here.”

Harry chokes, his index and middle finger pinch the bridge of his nose. Tears run down his face, and Louis holds on to the front of his shirt like his hands are anchors. “I thought...I thought you were dead. I thought he might’ve killed you. I sat there for three hours thinking that I just had you killed.”

“But you didn’t – “Louis interrupts, still unable to picture the previous few nights. His brain won’t let him, he thinks. He wonders how painful it’s going to be when he’s able to remember everything.

“But I remember what it felt like. I remember the possibility, and that’s enough, Lou,” Harry looks at him, pink cheeked and haggard eyes. “Never again. Never again can I go through that.”

“Okay,” Louis shushes him, running his fingers over the slick of Harry’s face, “Okay, never again.”

“Promise?” Harry looks at him, older than his nineteen years, looking for answers Louis doesn’t have. But he nods anyway.

“Yeah. Promise. I love you.”

-

The inevitability of the crushing, searing, chest pinching pain that Louis was waiting for comes a few days later. He’s in a marble, clawfoot bathtub in a gray coloured bathroom on the second floor. The window is cracked open, and he can’t breathe.

There’s a bruise around his wrist, and it’s what startles him into shock. There are bruises all over his body; no doubt, this is the one that bothers him the most: mottled, ugly, and swollen, broken like a red sky. Louis wouldn’t be surprised if Robert’s DNA was imprinted inside his skin forever now. The tips of his fingers still tingle when he dares move his wrist. His skin itches like a burn.

When he was four or five, he was a chubby child. Droopy cheeks and a round belly, Louis can remember often waddling around with sticky fingers and a smiling double chin. His mother used to pinch his cheeks, feed him a biscuit, and pat his fat bottom. She was always a lover.

By primary school, he was thinning out slowly, but not efficiently enough to avoid teasing. One day, the event unremarkable to Louis, he had come to his mother, tearfully. And this is what she said: _Oh, Louis, you’re not fat, you’re beautiful_.

Louis, thoughts tainted with innocence and curiosity, wondered silently: _why can’t I be both?_

This is a replica of that previous, long forgotten feeling: the naked vulnerability that leaves Louis feeling raw, humiliated, and ready to claw out of his own skin. For an entirely different reason, nearly 15 years later, he can’t stand the feel of his own body. It aches from within, something deep and rotten, clawing it’s way up his throat.

He feels ugly.

The bathwater has long ago turned cold, Louis’ toes and fingers shrivelled and pruned. A scab tears off, floating to the bottom, and his knee starts to bleed. All he can smell is the dirt and soil and metallic scent of Robert’s blood. It’s so strong he can almost taste it. He’s suffocating with the tangerine fragrance of Robert’s hair, the afterward hint of self-tanning lotion; perfumed, expensive, leather of the back seats where Robert pulled down Louis’ pants and pushed himself inside –

It’s Harry who finds him in the bath. Louis is shivering as he accepts a towel, unable to make any sound. Harry pushes back the wet fringe from his forehead, looking in Louis’ eyes like he’s searching for something. Louis holds the towel around, plush and clean like cotton, around his shoulders like a child. He feels like a child. Small, withered like a raisin, and scared.

His throat hurts like he’s got a cold. “I,” Louis starts as Harry guides him to sit down on the bed. Its half-way made, like Harry was in the process of trying to tidy when he realised Louis had been in the bath for hours. “I wasn’t feeling so well. I thought maybe a bath would help.”

“You’re all pruned, Lou. You were in there for ages,” Harry sighs, sitting down next to him, and patting his knee.

It’s so gentle it feels like a memory of his touch. It’s a familiar feeling: Louis used to try to remember the way Harry touched while he was lonely in Florida. Lonely, but not alone. He often yearned for memories of them together, setting aside time just to envision it. Fleeting, and barely there.

Sometimes it was the only thing that kept him going. Harry has always been one of the reasons for Louis to wake up in the morning.

“I know,” Louis shrugs, helpless. He tries for the truth. “I just don’t feel clean anymore.”

Harry clenches his jaw, folding his long arms across his knees. He looks at the carpet for a second, eyes narrowed at some invisible speck. Finally he looks at Louis. He’s not tearful, or even remotely upset, but there is this terrible rawness in his eyes, something honest and young that Louis can’t place. It’s so very Harry.

“You know you’re the same person to me.”

“I don’t feel like him anymore. I feel – I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what to do, or who I am,” Louis confesses. He shuffles closer to Harry for a moment, a hand wrapping around Harry’s wrist. “I’m lost.”

“We’ll find a way out of this mess together,” Harry assents, mouth rigid and eyes focused. “I’ll find you, and it’ll get better.”

Louis smiles at Harry, but he’s not sure if he believes it. He’s tired, restless at night from nightmares and any hinting smell of leather that might invade his memories; he moves around the apartment, terrified sometimes to leave even to the grocer down the block. Immoveable in grief for a man he feared and sometimes hated.

Won’t turn on the television, lest he hears the news. Can’t answer the phone, in case it’s something he doesn’t want to hear.

Louis might have survived, but he is still a prisoner.

-

He doesn’t call the other boys. He knows Harry does, often, and sometimes loudly in the front room. It’s nice, and refreshing, to hear him laugh from time to time. It reminds Louis of England, specifically, Doncaster, and school, and the smell of grass. Harry’s terrible, floppy childhood haircut. Louis’ were even worse than that.

He can’t talk to them. He hadn’t seen Zayn in over a year and a half since he withdrew of NYU and moved back home to Florida, and when Louis lived in the Orange state he nearly never was allowed to leave the house by himself unattended. He doesn’t think, in retrospect, he could’ve taken the shame and look in Zayn’s eyes. 

 

Niall is taller, broader, and nicer looking from what Louis has seen. His braces, though visible, are white and the teeth underneath nearly the same. Gleaming and beautiful, his eyes used to dance humorously over the tops of their heads from his post on the upper bunk, usually taking a break from studying for a Chemistry Midterm. Louis was not fooled by the lingering stare that sat itself on Harry’s features, eyes, shoulders. He understood, and Niall understood, and they all kept on.

Liam’s soul is tattered and beaten down and he had looked at Louis like he is familiar with the horrors that went on behind polished white doors. The familiarity of his understanding, his relation, whatever it may be, has startled Louis.

He can’t talk to them because it makes it real. It makes Robert really dead. It means his sisters are under the influential care of their biological father. It means he’s not the same person, and the beatings really happened, and the rape really happened, and thinking all of this makes Louis want to throw up his lunch.

-

Harry enrolls in another year of NYU along with Niall, and Liam. He’s going to be a first semester junior in uni. Louis still hasn’t started his sophomore year. The weight of being behind is heavy and overwhelming.

Harry is not under the impression that Louis has left the house in days or has done anything productive since Liam let them stay here. It’s an old, rich, empty house, lack of any feeling or entertainment, and Louis thinks if he rots in here, then it’s fitting. He sold his soul for luxury, so now he might as well suffer for it.

September is an excruciating month. Sometimes when it smells too much like burning flesh and Lysol, Louis will open the windows facing the street to air out the front rooms. The smell of street pollution, trees, and the Puerto Rican restaurant are all infatuated with the powerful smell of lilac, something soft and clean and innocent. It’s a good smell; one Louis could sit in for days.

Harry chatters on in the evenings about school and coursework and how Niall’s now double majoring in Bio Chem. and Environmental Research because he’s a bloody intelligent fucker, and Louis listens along with a weight pressed against his throat. He’s jealous, but helpless to his jealousy, and he hasn’t much to say as they eat dinner in front of the television. He doesn’t let himself think that this is the same kind of silence that Robert used to bestow upon him; the kind that strangles.

-

It’s a Monday on the last week of September and Louis has just taken a bath. He still feels oily, greasy, like he hasn’t bathed in days and the respite that bathing used to give him, however far and in-between it was during his youth, has been lost. He misses the smell of his clean skin. Now all he can smell is tangerines.

Liam lets himself in with a holler towards the back so Louis takes his time slipping on a pair of pyjama pants and a long sleeved t shirt. He pushes his hair out of his eyes, face feeling dry like he scrubbed it too hard, and finds Liam standing in the kitchen with a large dog walking in circles around him.

“Who’s that?” Louis asks, overlooking the orange juice in choice of milk. It’s a large, long haired, creamy golden retriever, its floppy ears and long, comical eyebrows giving it a look of persistent earnest.

“This is Parker,” Liam says, puffing out his chest in that way that he does when he wants someone to think his idea is a good one. “I bought him for you.”

Louis stands there. “Li, you _bought_ him for me – what? Why?”

“Harry told me you haven’t left the apartment except with him. It’s been weeks, Lou. That’s just not healthy.”

“There’s nothing out there for me right now,” Louis says dismissively, pouring himself a bowl of cereal.

“There’s plenty out there for you right now,” Liam places the milk down on the counter and searches for eye contact. “He’s a trained service animal. He’ll do anything and go anywhere you want him to.”

“A service animal? I’m not disabled,” Louis excuses, crossing his elbows around his ribs.

“Service animals are not just for the disabled. They can help with depression, cancer therapy, PTSD...you need this Lou, so just accept it,” Liam crouches down to rub the silky hairs on Parker’s head. “Please.”

“I...thank you, Li. I’ll see what I can do,” Louis struggles. Liam’s mouth splits nearly in half as he smiles, standing up and pulling Louis in to a hug. It’s startling, but Louis tells himself not to panic: This is the Liam you went to First Year Seminar with, reamed endlessly while he tried to pay attention in Intro to Communications, and shared a drunken night with many a times. This is Liam. Just Liam.

“Go out, take him for a walk, go see a movie or something,” Liam heeds, but Louis shakes his head. He needs this on his own terms.

“I can’t...I don’t know if I can offer that right now,” he swallows, “but I’ll try.”

“That’s all we’re asking, Lou. We’re just so happy to have you back,” Liam smiles again. Louis’ gaze follows Parker’s as he sniffs out the apartment, wet black nose smudging the stainless steel refrigerator.

Louis wishes he could say he is happy to be back. But he doesn’t know. “Thanks, Li. He’s beautiful, after all.”

“I used to have a retriever as a kid named Skip – he was one of those dogs,” Liam smiled. His eyes are brown and bottomless, like Louis could fall inside of them. He looks older than a year ago, aged in way that only speaks anguish, or maybe yearning. There are tiny crows’ feet around his lashes and circles under his eyes like he’s pressed his face to a laptop screen too many nights in a row. “Listen, Lou, I wanted to talk about you getting into a group.”

“A group for what?” Louis asks distractedly. The smells is starting the settle in again, something pungent like leather and sun tan lotion. Louis opens the window above the kitchen sink, looking out at the skyline in New York City. The city air comforted him.

Liam looks at a lost as he struggles for the right words, “A survivors group, Lou. Somewhere you can talk about what happened.”

Louis deflates, and then shrugs dismissively. “What’s to talk about?” He ponders cheerfully, hiding the quick sinking ball of lead in his stomach, “How am _I_ a survivor?”

“You don’t even know, Louis, how much of a survivor you are,” Liam protests, a crease beginning between his eyebrows. “I’ll send you a link about a group I think you might want to go to. Please do it. You need to get out of the house.”

“It’s a flat, so to speak. A big one, but not quite a house,” Louis reprimands.

Liam sighs, picking up his laptop briefcase and sliding it underneath his armpit. “I know what I’m talking about.”

Louis throws the half eaten bowl of cereal into the sink and the glass shatters. He turns to Liam sharply, “What do you know? _What_ do you know?”

Liam blinks, owlishly nearly, like he expected Louis to round on him. “I know,” he regards sadly, “What staying silent does to someone.”

-

Harry cleans up the glass. Naturally, he loves the dog. Louis doesn’t know he was home as he was taking a bath, lying at the bottom of the tub until the water turned lukewarm, toes playing with the tap. He smells like the fascia bath salts found underneath the sink cupboard, and they smell okay. As long. As long as it’s not citrus.

“Who’s this beautiful brute?” Harry exclaims, giggling as greets Parker. Louis has half the mind to ignore him. He can’t take anymore cheerfulness. Just not today. “You’re beautiful, aren’t you, gorgeous, absolutely, yes, you are – yes, yes you are –”

“This is Parker,” Louis says after he’s pulled on a stripped shirt. It rides up a little but Louis hasn’t gotten around doing laundry between his busy schedule of watching day time soap operas and sleeping odd hours. “Liam bought me a service dog.”

“Sweet,” Harry says nonchalantly, still petting behind Parker’s ears.

Louis narrows his eyes, “You two talked about it. Discussed it. Whatever.”

Harry shrugs, “He brought it up to me after I said I was worried you weren’t going out as much.”

“ _What_ ,” Louis struggles, a vein swelling in his neck, “Are you – you can’t just. You can’t just talk about me behind my back. What else are you saying?”

“Lou, relax. I don’t say anything to anyone about anything,” Harry smiles. This used to work on them: Louis will get fussy about something and Harry would charm his way into his good graces again, and Louis would forget to be agitated and find a solution later. But that isn’t who they are anymore. Louis feels empty at the realisation.

That’s no longer who they are.

“Please, don’t,” he croaks, and Harry’s smile drops abruptly, “I can’t have them knowing things like that. Don’t tell them things.”

“Okay, Lou, okay,” he whispers, crowding in close, “I didn’t mean to upset you, I was just...worried about you.”

Louis blinks back a frustrated tear, rolling his eyes, “Well, don’t worry. I’m fine.”

Harry looks like he wants to say something else but holds back. Instead, he wipes away the few droplets on Louis’s cheek like he’s dabbing an oil painting with his fingers. “Don’t be mad.”

“M’not,” Louis grunts, “Not at you.”

-

Harry brought home a bottle of wine and pasta, which he reveals along with a few cans of gourmet dog food from Liam. The whole surprise greeting to the dog had been for show, Louis realises, and he looks at the back of Harry’s neck and wonders with paranoia what he’s playing at.

The pasta is good, tagliatelle and white wine cream sauce, but the red wine is better. After three glasses each they’re rolling around on the sofa, pink cheeked and red lipped, Harry’s eyes slipping closed each time he giggles.

Louis likes this feeling, being drunk, the soft liquidly swimming in his stomach, his eyes blurred like they’ve been rubbed with cotton, the linear edges of the living room seeming to stretch on forever. It’s easier. The shrapnel in his heart seems to have softened.

“I haven’t laughed with you in ages like this,” Harry pants, crawling closer to Louis on the couch and wrapping his octopus arms around him. He sighs, exaggerated by his intoxication and the little curls on his forehead flutter. “I missed this.”

Louis cannot do anything but nod numbly along. He missed this too, but it hurts too much to admit it aloud.

“Can I tell you about this dream I keep having?” Harry peers up at him. Louis smiles and nods along, tipping his head back against the couch.

“Yeah, of course, Harry.”

“I have this day dream that we’re back in England. In the dream it’s always summer, and it smells like Honeysuckle plants. We’ve got this big garden that I tend to, you know, ‘cause you don’t want to get dirty, and I understand, of course. The house we bought has four bedrooms, three for the girls, and one for us, with that quilt Jay made you that one year, and the stairs creek and in the kitchen we’ve got one of those old fridge airs that has a latch handle, and Fizz puts up all her artwork with magnets. You’re wearing...” he blinks slowly, eyes milky and glazed over.

“You are always wearing slip on shoes because you haven’t got time between taking the girls to school and doing coursework, and we make costumes for the girls for their play and take turns with the car, rickety old thing, and it always ends with us going out in the grass and we lie there while the house is quiet, wait for the sun to set, wait for it turn a magnificent purple.”

It’s a crushing, beautiful, dream. Louis smiles, but there’s no sweetness to it. He feels as if he might cry. Harry closes his eyes again, perhaps so he doesn’t have to see Louis reaction, to see the bareness, the closeness of his naked soul. Louis doesn’t blame him.

There’s bitterness in his throat when he asks, “And in this dream, does Robert exist? Do I leave you? Do I hurt you? Do I hurt?”

Harry shakes his head, “It doesn’t matter if he exists or not. It doesn’t matter if you left. It doesn’t matter what’s behind us.”

“But I’ve done some terrible things, Harry.”

“But I don’t care,” Harry interrupts petulantly. “I don’t care if you’re half broken or 4 feet tall or missing an ear. I just don’t care. I love you. I love upside down and sideways.”

He sits up abruptly, unfocused stare and a slightly tilt to the left, “You are everything to me. All the sloppy pieces, all the missing pieces of you. My whole childhood, my whole – I came to find _you_. I came to find you because I knew,” Harry protests, cradling his collarbone like its hurt. Like Louis’ hurt him. He looks over the couch into the foyer, and beyond that to the kitchen, “I know you feel broken, Lou. I know you feel...damaged. But you’re not. Not to me.”

“I love you,” Louis says, trying to smile, “Don’t make me cry.”

-

Louis wakes up on the couch nursing a slightly stomach-ache and no Harry. There’s a note on the coffee table that he’s gone to catch breakfast with Niall and then they’re heading to class. Parker is resting below him on the floor, eyes peeping up to see if he’s awake.

Louis swings his legs down, thumbing at his temples. “Jesus,”

Parker looks at him like he has to go pee. Figures. There’s a leash on the island counter in the kitchen, and Louis pulls on a cardigan even though it’s still blissfully warm. He puts on his sunglasses and tags the leash on Parker’s collar, leading him down to the elevator at the end of the hall.

Outside, the world bustles. Louis grips the leash and lets Parker lead him down the busy street towards the closest park. There’s a news stand on the corner and a woman wearing a pink skirt suit clutching a big purple bag. This is okay. This is normal.

In the park, the grass is faded yellowish green from dehydration and the sun is shining directly above Louis’ head, so bright his eyes are in a permanent squint. Parker pees and sniffs things, keeping by Louis’ side as they peruse slowly through the park.

On the way back, Louis’ spine pricking like someone is watching him the entire walk back to the apartment, he stops at a twenty four hour liquor store.

It’s easy getting drunk midday. Harry has class from ten to four, and then study group with Liam and Niall until six. Louis is alone with Parker, trailing him around the apartment, emotive eyes drawn up in never ending concern.

It doesn’t matter what kind of alcohol it is – rum, vodka, maybe a few Long Islands if Louis feels like throwing a drink together. Maybe a Junebug, but usually not, because pineapple is too tropical for him and that warm, acidic punch in his mouth hits a place in his heart too dark for him to visit.

Today it’s just Sprite and vodka, a drink Louis used to love back when Harry and he would frequent the few dive bars that existed in Doncaster. _A Vodka Double Lemonade_ , he’d order, mouth stuffed with glee, eyes alight, _and a rum and coke for the kid_.

He can’t think of that summer anymore. The summer after Harry had turned eighteen and they were going to leave for NYU that August. Louis remembers that feeling; vast and serious and elated all wrapped together, swishing in his bones, making him feel like he couldn’t stand straight, like his head was stingingly. It was his future, he realizes now in retrospect, which had him feeling that way. The vertigo pace of his future, bright, and never-ending.

And now.

Parker lies on the couch and Louis cradles him. “You might be the only one who loves me, Parker,” Louis moans, his head swimming and sinking to one side. His fur is soft and expansive, and Louis rubs his cheek on Parker’s belly. “You’re the only one who is here.”

-

He spends weeks like that. Harry might as well become a ghost. Louis is drunk when he goes to bed, silent and trying not to trip on the carpet, in case he spills his guts on the floor. But it doesn’t matter, really. Harry looks at him as if he already has. Louis is drunk when he wakes up, dammit. Louis is drunk because he can’t live like this. The overwhelming, all consuming, grief of his own fucking existence. He might as well slit his own damn wrists. He might as well cut his heart out. He might as well swim to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean and sit there until the bubbles stop.

He misses his sisters. He misses Lottie, and her incredible astuteness. She is Louis’ right hand man. She is Louis’ rock. He misses Daisy and Phoebe, his two beautiful girls, and he misses Fizz's constant ramble, drawing on everything she can get her hands on, putting on living room plays and constructing little novels. That had been happiness, he concedes, and now he’s ruined that. He gave up Harry to keep the girls, and now he’s given up the girls to keep Harry, and somehow in that process he’s lost himself.

In his drunkenness, this is when he illustrates Harry’s previous daydream. He can imagine _Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da_ by the Beatles playing in the background, the whole house smells like hibiscus and lavender, Harry out in the back gardening his hydrangeas, pussy willow and lamb’s ear with dirt under his fingers. He smells like soil. He smells like quilts, there’s a cheery look on his face as they shuffle together through bouts of laundry. Louis taking Lottie to buy groceries and school supplies, looking at _your first menstruation_ pamphlets, wearing old jeans cuffed up to the knee, going on long walks, fighting for the best seat on the lumpy couch. Watching Homeland and eating stove popcorn. Putting the milk bottles out at night. Nothing hurts. Nothing hurts. Everything is beautiful. Nothing hurts.

Only when he’s swimming in his bottle can he think these thoughts. Louis falls asleep with tears in his eyes, and it’s not the first time he’s felt like he’s drowning.

-

“I can’t talk about this – I need to go, okay, Ni, alright, I’ll talk to you later. Bye, mate,” Harry murmurs, hushed and crouched over the kitchen island. Louis is still wearing that striped shirt, now stained with old red wine.

“What were you two talking about?” He asks. His head hums a soft, soothing pain near his temple. It roots him in place. “Harry?”

“We were just – we were just talking about school,” Harry doesn’t turn to look at Louis.

“And what class could a Bio-chem. major and an English major have in common?” Louis scrunches his brow. He feels vindictive. His hands are on fire. He wants to burn.

“We – we don’t,” Harry smiles, but his eyes are hollow. “You okay, Lou? You look tired.”

“Course I’m fucking tired,” Louis snaps, “How do you think I sleep? Do you think I sleep soundly, through the night? Think I don’t smell the soil and I don’t fucking hear the rain and know what it sounds like when a bullet is lodged through someone’s head?”

“Can we not argue, please –” Harry tries, trying to placate Louis.

“No, course not. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Run off to Niall, now, like you always do.”

Harry narrows his eyes, “Jesus – Lou – what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means. You think I’m so fucking ignorant to not know how he looks at you? You’re such a prat for leading him on, but I thought ‘he’s harmless’, you know? Now I’m not so sure. Now I don’t know - he's certainly easy for you. Probably wouldn't take much for you to fuck him. I wouldn’t be so surprised. S’not like I -,” Louis’ voice cracks, his face hot and blotchy, his eyes itchy. “Look at me. Fucking look at me, Harry.”

Harry looks. He looks up with flushed, guilt ridden cheeks. Louis snatches the bowl of decorative plastic oranges in an ornate glass, and flings them as hard as he can at Harry. They miss, bowl shattering against the wall, plastic tangerines bouncing off Harry’s thighs and rolling uselessly onto the floor.

“You wanted to save me so badly from Robert but you can’t even take time to save me from myself,” Louis cries, glaring at the pitiless, misshapen body that is his soul mate. “You’re scared because you don’t recognize who I am anymore. Well grow the _fuck_ up, Harry, because neither do I.”

Harry is silent. Louis wipes at his own face. “I can’t even fucking stand you anymore. I can’t even look at you,” he spits, “Don’t come back tonight. Don’t come back for a week.”

-

It was a sticky August evening the night Louis put his mother to bed for the last time. She was weathered and weak, a tiny duckling with thin wrists and paper tissue skin. Jay smelt too soft and fragile, like the old lady she hadn’t become yet.

The archaic windows were opened to let in what little breeze the summer allowed, smelling of hibiscus and lilac, tender like the remnants of Louis’ summers spent outside till dark, running his tiny toes through the grass and setting up camp on the back deck with Harry, giggling over nonsense until they turned pink.  Louis remembers sleeping under a night sky fraught with twinkling stars and the world has been so large then.

It was quite small now. At twenty, the world was his mother’s bedroom, her dried flowers hanging upside down next to her bedside, her faded floral quilts, and her knee length nightgown that seemed to droop on her. She was tiny in comparison to him, just a little leaflet blowing in the wind, may it take her away and - she was delicate in a way that she was not before. Cancer does that.

She had fallen asleep on the deck, curled up on the rocking chair with a cup of tea nestled between her fingers. Her nails were painted cerulean blue by Daisy earlier, tiny chips already forming in the cheap polish around her worn cuticles. Louis bent down to cradle her against his chest, and she was tiny enough to fit into a thimble, her headscarf tickling his chin as she lolled in her sleep like a limpet. At twenty, the world was his mother.

“Time for your morphine, mum,” Louis whispered when his mother woke, leaning farther into her thread barren sheets. She cracked her toes, stretched and gummed her lips. Her hand felt like old linen when it cupped his face and he had begged off a small smile for her benefit. “Are you in pain?”

“Oh, Lou,” his mother’s eyes shined, but she looked at peace. Jay was in a place Louis cannot name if he ever saw it again. Tranquility. “I don’t think I need that anymore.”

Louis kissed her forehead like she used to do for him before he went to bed, before there were four other little girls running around that needed many more kisses than he did. She held one of his hands with both of hers and they’d been dwarfed. Louis hadn’t know which moment was going to be his last with her -  so he tucked her in, like every night, told his mother he loved her, and the next day she would be awake, to tell bid him a good morning. Louis waited for her to fall back asleep, turned off her light, and closed her door. She didn’t greeted him the next day.

People are so peaceful in death.

-

Niall is at the door when Louis answers it on the third knock that evening. He wonders who let him in, or Harry gave him a key card. “You are the last person I want to see,” Louis glares, reaching back to slam the door in his face.

Niall blocks the door with his hand, “Wait, Lou, please. Don’t do this.”

He was in the middle of polishing his third glass of wine, Harry’s shadow dancing on the walls. He looks at Niall through his bedroom eyes. Platinum hair, curling around his ears, puckered pink mouth, broad shoulders with newly formed biceps. Like art, like sculpture, Niall is bright in his prettiness. Something sour turns in Louis’ stomach, empty on hunger but full on alcohol.

“What am I not supposed to do?”

“Don’t cut everyone out. Don’t cut Harry out,” Niall pleads.

“Why not? S’not like you are here anyway,” Louis looks around at all the empty space, the closed cabinets, and the stark, artless fridge. “I don’t see anyone here, do you?”

Niall has the decency to look down at his feet. “We used to be friends.”

Louis narrows his eyes, mouth going thin, “A lot has changed.”

“I know,” Niall sighs, “I know,” he eyes the half finished bottle on wine on the counter, “Drinking like that will kill you, you know.”

“Like you have any room to comment on my drinking, Irishman,” Louis snaps, bitter laughter bubbling up on his lips. He's drunk and the room is spinning and he feels alone, so alone. “Here.”

He pours Niall a drink, and they toast. “To death,” Louis clinks his glass, a small ringing sound that hums inside his ears and makes him think of crystal champagne and china patterns.

They drink on the sofa until Louis can’t see straight. He peers over at Niall, who is ruddy cheeked and smiling sadly into his cup, and then says, “I know you love him.”

“I don’t just love him,” Niall slurs, “I’m in love with him.”

Louis nods, “I know.”

Niall nods too, “I’m sorry. I never meant for it. You have to understand I never meant for it...”

“Do you remember the first time you met him? I do. I was six or seven, I think, and Harry was new in the neighbourhood and was having a birthday party his mother had put together,” Louis reminisces, feeling foggy, “but Harry hadn’t wanted one. He wanted to eat the cake by himself and be left alone, so he hid. And I found him. Under the table, with frosting all over his face and he let me eat some of his cake if I didn’t tell anyone where he was. I eventually did, because his mum was starting to look she might cry, but we were friends by then.”

“I was standing in my orientation during the first week, and Harry came up to me asking if I were truly Irish or fake American Irish. I remember thinking I would never forget a face like his,” Niall admits, rubbing his hand through his hair, “I cannot compete with the history you two have.”

Niall starts to weep. Louis looks at him, curled up at the end of the couch, hunched over his knees with arms around his head, cradling his brain like it hurts. And it probably does. Louis scoots toward him, placing a hand on his back tentatively.

“Sometimes it's easy to pretend you don't exist, but it's not right. I can't do it anymore. I can't,” Niall says, hiccuping and wiping at his face. His eyes are swollen and bright red against his blue irises. He laughs desperately mid-hiccup, rubbing his face again. “I’m so completely drunk.”

Louis starts to giggle too, his organs sloshing around. “Me too.”

They sober for a second, as Niall peers up at him with glassy eyes. He leans up, neck craning, until he kisses Louis, flush and wet, tasting like salt. His tongue is hot and Louis encourages it, egging him on, kissing him back. “I just wanted to see,” he whispers after a few minutes. “Sorry.”

Louis touches his mouth for a second, feeling the wet tears and saliva on his lips. “Its okay, Ni.”

Niall chuckles forlornly. “Take Harry back, Lou. He's made it clear there is no one else for him but you.”

He sound so bitter and so sad that Louis doesn’t bother retorting back. Instead he takes Niall’s advice and sits there, unable to move, as Niall ambles to the door, staggering slightly, and lets himself out.

-

The next morning Louis’ head aches. He drains the wine down the composter and recycles all bottles he had hidden under the sink. He throws the orange juice out too, wondering when Harry had put that in there and why. He opens the windows in the front room, smelling in the city, smelling the coffee, the taxi pollution, the click clack of heels against cement, the chirp of a seagull, the sea.

He calls Harry. It goes to voicemail, but Louis doesn’t mind. “I need you to come home so I can say sorry in person. I love you.”

He means it. He takes Parker for a walk and the sit outside a Starbucks cafe as Louis looks through his emails for the first time in weeks. A woman exits carrying a pumpkin spice latte and Louis realizes it must be nearly Halloween. It used to be his favourite holiday. He shakes off the unsettling memory, the startling reminders of his life before Florida and Robert and the citrus sickness.

“You are the best dog in the world, you know,” Louis compliments, petting Parker behind the ears, looking into his soulful eyes. “I could never have asked for a better one.”

Liam’s email is the last unread one, with a link to a group Louis could join. He almost deletes it, the vindictive surge to avoid anything scary welling up inside of him, but then he thinks of Niall, and the red stain on his lips from the wine, the way he had held himself as he cried, as if he no one had ever been there to hold him before.

Louis reads it. It’s a domestic violence group a couple blocks over in a church basement nearing the Lower West Side. So he goes. There’s a meeting at three, and he’s got time to go, so he ignores the idea of venturing outside the few neighbourhoods on the Upper East Side he’s used to and goes.

Inside it smells like churches smell: like stale food, like old coats, like his grandmother, like moth balls. He doesn’t mind it. In the basement there is a domestic violence survivors group with two men and four women and three empty chairs, so Louis sits down and Parker seats himself at his feet, nuzzling his ankle. He tries to smile, but his mind is buzzing, his stomach aching, so instead he sits and drinks a cup of very badly pressed coffee.

Everyone introduces themselves. There’s a tall black woman named Alice, who wears bright pink lipstick and has a voice that is comforting, who is sits next to a mid-forties born New Yorker gay man named Thom, who is to the right of Mimi, who speaks very quietly and timidly, and has cat hair on her sweater, who is comforted by a mousy looking woman named El, who smiles at everyone like the sun sits behind her teeth, and is then followed by Jonathan, who in turn tries to explain that this is only his second meeting, and Yes, he’s still nervous, and before Louis is Thelma, a long limbed girl with watery looking eyes who tells everyone defensively if they don’t want the muffins she’ll take them home with her after.

Louis clears his throat, “I’m Louis, and I...this is my first time doing something like this. I haven’t talked to anyone about what’s happened. So maybe...this will help.”

He listens the entire time instead of opting to talk. Thom explains in a nearly gruff, off hand fashion about his partner and the span of their ten year relationship, which was on and off because of his partner’s re-occurring incarcerations. He had a small dog that died last week and he still cries about it. The dog’s name was Jimmy. Louis looks down at Parker and mourns a little.

Alice rattles on in a slow voice; if her voice had a colour it would be plum. She shaved her head five years ago after she was raped again by her husband because he didn’t like the way she  styled her hair that day and she still can’t bare to grow it out again.

 

“That’s the thing about abuse, as least with me,” she says, “Is that I always thought I deserved it. I always thought it just came with loving someone; that it had to hurt.”

Louis knows what that feels like.

 

The meeting concludes and Louis smiles at everyone on their way out and promises to see them next week. He feels lighter and heavier at the same time. He sees his demons clearer now, but still he knows how strong they are.

“Hey, you’re new,” the mousy girl that sat next to Timid Mimi, her brown hair let down from the ponytail she was wearing earlier. El. “I’m happy you came.”

“Thanks, actually,” Louis says, and El smiles like she’s happy that he said anything at all. She starts to move away, aware that she might not Louis to speak again, and he doesn’t want her to go just yet. “I was wondering what the fastest way to get back to the Upper East Side from here, actually. Walking-wise.”

She beams. “I’ll show you! I actually have to walk that way.”

They walk through the autumn afternoon. It’s still sunny in New York, not too crisp. Halloween pops up through the shops and cafe’s that they pass, reminding Louis of all the time he’s missed by being indoors.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” El asks him as they’re rounding a street corner.

“Why do you think that?” Louis sputters, turning his attention back to her.

El smiles, and then shrugs, “You look like what I used to look like when I started seeing the world again, after I came out of hiding.”Louis swallows the lump in his throat, “It’s been –”

“–Hard, I can sympathize. I used to be the same. I could never bare to go outside, you know? I was...trapped inside my own apartment. Or my mind, whichever.”

“It’s not easy for me,” Louis admits, “How’d you do it?”

El smiles at him softly like she understands, and maybe that’s exactly what Louis needs. Just someone to understand. “I took a deep breath, and I said, ‘I am not a victim.’ Some days are harder than others. I just don’t see my future being inside my bedroom, re-watching Doctor Who and being too scared to look outside, you know? I had to be better for myself.”

Louis recognizes the area they’re in, the neat rows of million dollar penthouse and apartment buildings. They turn on his avenue, and Parker starts to see their doorman in sight. “Do you want to come up for a cuppa? Or maybe a piece of cake?”

“A cuppa?” El laughs questioningly, cheeks pink and charmed by his accent.

“Tea or coffee. Whichever,” Louis smiles.

Inside, the apartment is still empty, though Louis had expected that it would be. Harry had class until four thirty these days, and usually he was with Niall and Liam studying until six or seven.

“This is a beautiful place,” El runs her fingers along the marble kitchen counters, her creamy brown eyes taking in the accented drapes, the way the light outlines the expansive kitchen, the living area, the black baby grand piano in the corner, untouched. “Yours?”

“No, actually,” Louis shakes his head, “A friend of mine’s great Aunt’s. He’s letting us stay until we figure out where we want to go, or what we want to do.”

“Yeah, of course,” El says, “I like just a few blocks up. My father owns the building in it’s entirety, but I’ve got a corner up on the penthouse floor to myself.”

“So posh, El,” Louis teases, seeping a tea bag for El and passing it to her. She laughs, unfazed, her eyes twinkling.

“Guess so, I mean. We must be the lucky ones,” She smiles again, shrugging her petite shoulders. Louis doesn’t have time to examine what she means by that because she says, “You can call me Eleanor, actually.”

“Why do you introduce yourself as El, if you like to be called Eleanor?” Louis asks, “It’s just, usually it’s the other way around.”

Eleanor bites her lip, “I think it’s because Eleanor is such an imposing, strong, name, you know? So much history behind it, and I think that agitates people. They feel comforted by El because it’s short, unnoticeable, and modern.”

“I never thought a name could hold so much,” Louis admits, “But Eleanor suits you. You look like you could be a beautiful Eleanor.”

Eleanor stirs her tea counter-clockwise, “Thanks, Louis. That’s really...that’s a really nice thing to say.”

“Sorry,” Louis half-smiles, “Do you not like compliments?”

Eleanor smiles, half her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. “Sometimes they’re just hard to stomach, you know. But I appreciate it because I know you’re being honest...and harmless.”

Parker nudges Louis in the legs, as if to remind Louis to feed him, and Eleanor runs her hand down his silky blonde back. “I have a dog like Parker,” she says, “A therapy dog, you know. She’s a greyhound named Penelope, and I have a Parakeet named Lola, but she’s not a service pet.”

“Why didn’t you take her out with you today?”

“I wanted to see if I could walk on my own. I got a little spooked towards end, having to  leave the church, which is why you were a knight in shining armour to ask me to walk you back,” Eleanor smiles.

Louis’ never met anyone like her, really, not recently. Eleanor constantly has a smile on her face, talking with articulated grace. Louis can tell that she puts a lot of thought into everything she says and he appreciates that, almost doesn’t expect it, and he admires that she takes time to string her sentences together. And most of all; she understands. She understands what it’s like to have no-touch bubbles, and personal space, and she picks up on the queues he leaves about things he cannot talk about.

Eleanor leaves with her number on the table and a promise to see him next week at the church. Louis’ already made plans to have coffee with her and go to a dog park after their next meeting.

The elated bubble in his chest is appreciation, yes, but it’s more than that, huddling underneath layers and layers of bone and muscle: hope. It is the first bud of hope.

-

He calls his sister on Skype, and after the first few rings she answers. Her hair is lightened still from the hair salon treatments Robert used to pay for her, making his sister look less like a little girl with leaves in her hair, trying to keep up with her brother(s) and more like a young woman still in a girl’s body. It doesn’t suit her, the long shiny hair, the blondeness, the arched trim of her eyebrows. She is beautiful without all that.

“Hey,” Louis says, “How are you?”

“We’re okay, Lou,” Lottie sighs, “Mark enrolled us into a school here, and Daisy has stopped wetting the bed. Harry called us yesterday, too, to see how we were. We’re okay.”

Louis closes his eyes briefly, the sharp ache of not having his sisters near him strong and metallic in his mouth, “I miss you, bunny.”

Lottie smiles, fingers curling around the computer screen, “I miss you too, Lou. Every day the girls ask me when we’re going to be with you instead of Mark. Daisy and Phoebe – they’re confused. They don’t think he’s their father, they think you are.”

“Soon,” Louis promises, feeling a searing pain creep up his throat, assaulting his senses, “Sooner than you think, we’ll be reunited. All of us – Harry too.”

Lottie smiles like she understands, scrunching her lips to the side for a moment. Then, “We watched Peter Pan last night, and the Fizz says Peter Pan reminds her of you, and when I told Harry that, he laughed. He said he agreed, and he was probably Wendy,” Lottie laughs to herself. “It was the best feeling, just talking to you both again.”

“We’ll figure it out, somehow, to make this work, Lots,” Louis promises again, unable to do much more than give her words. She nods, kisses the computer screen, and signs out. It must be her bedtime over there.

He wants to drink until he can’t stay awake, plundering under a dreamless sleep so that he can’t think of anything that hurts: His sisters, Lottie and the way she’s become old in her youth, ladled down with responsibilities she doesn’t need, Harry’s absence, Louis’ own last words to him ringing impossibly loud in his brain. His head hurts. Everything aches again. The little bit of hope has been stolen by the horrible guilt that is eroding at his gut, making his stomach cramp.

Instead he doesn’t. He doesn’t grab Parker and his keys and go in search for the nearest bottle of Rum. He can almost taste it. His hands tremor. Eleanor left hours ago, and there’s still plenty of the evening to go, so Louis microwaves a TV dinner and finds Peter Pan on Netflix, pressing play. He curls up around Parker, who nuzzles at his chin, and together they fall asleep in front of the television.

-

He wakes up with a floppy head of curls in his mouth. His tongue is dry and heavy, but his head is clear, clearer than it’s felt in weeks. Harry is curled around him like a large comma, his feet tucked under Parker’s still resting belly. Outside, the sky is a blushing pink. It’s early.

The rustling rouses Harry, who blinks like he does; owlishly, like he’s got all the time in the world; like everything is quiet and beautiful; like he’s paying attention. “Hi,” he croaks, reaching for Louis and then pulling back.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.

“Hey,” Louis whispers. He reaches down and brushes the hair out of Harry’s face, to which he closes his eyes for a brief moment. “You’re back.”

“Yeah, I got your voicemail,” Harry curls closer to Louis, pressing his cheek against the inside of Louis arm, nesting there. He’s warm, loose limbed and he smells like detergent, his skin a supple milky heat that invites the edges of sleep around the corner of Louis’ eyes.

“I’m happy you did,” Louis shushes, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“’Know you are, Lou. I’m sorry too. Be better for you, I promise. I’ll be scared no longer,” Harry slurs, eyebrows creasing. “’Know you’re hurting. I can feel it. I’m hurting too.”

Louis sinks down and allows himself to cuddle into the side of the couch. “You’re my hero, you know. Never could have done anything without you.”

Harry smiles even though his eyes are closed and he’s slipping away, “As kids, you used to hold my whole world in your hands. With you I could conquer anything. We could conquer anything.”

“And we’ll conquer this, too,” Louis promises, tracing the wispy line of Harry’s eyelashes. It sounds more like a lullaby, a slough of pretty words to tuck him in. Just when he thinks that Harry has fallen asleep, Harry slips forward and kisses him, a sleepy mouth taste so familiar to Louis it assaults him, it comforts him, it feels like home. Harry feels like home.

They kiss like they have no secrets, no dark places, just two kids who were in love and when the world got too bright they fell apart. But that’s behind them now, it is, and Louis knows, he can taste it.

-

Zayn and Niall come over for dinner the next evening. Harry cooks, of course he does, because Louis is rubbish at it and he can’t be bothered anyway. He’s wearing one of Harry’s sweatshirts, one that they found a Goodwill a year ago when they first moved to New York and were introduced to real thrifty shopping. It’s soft and smells musty still, the sleeves eclipsing his hands if he doesn’t push them up to his elbows. Coldplay is tinkering in the background, and Louis is steadfastedly ignoring the red wine on the table. He bites his nails to the quick instead, humming along and looking through the hundreds of channels on the telly.

Zayn knocks first; of course he does, assertive and dominant in ways Niall is not. He’s wearing an old jean jacket over a jumper, looking attractive and iridescent as always, hair dark as coal and slicked back like he’s watched _Rebel Without A Cause_ too many a times. According to Liam, he goes through bouts of being MIA. He’s not as tall as Louis remembers, but perhaps it’s because he’s been dwarfed by the still growing weeds that Harry and Niall have turned out to be. Louis knows _he_ certainly is.

“Hey, Zayn,” Louis chirps, getting up from his nest on the couch and waving. Zayn smiles, though a curled grimace is the most he seems to be capable of making, reaching into to hug Louis. He smells like cigarettes and pressed denim.

“Lou, how are you, mate?” Zayn asks, and Louis isn’t sure what to say, because formalities are shit to Zayn and he’ll call him out for it.

So he says, “Well, to be expected, of course.”

Zayn eyes for a second, looking straight through his soul like he understands all the terror that racks Louis’ brain. It’s unnerving and okay at the same time – whatever Louis has seen, Zayn has seen it too. Liam has let slip about the nightmares more than once when they were rooming together. Zayn wears the universe on his shoulders, and sometimes it shows.

Then he smiles in actually this time. It’s bright, blindly, a true Floridian smile that brings Louis back to a salted ocean air and mid afternoon thunder. “Looks like you’ve made no big effort to dress up for us coming over, _hombre_.”

Louis shrugs, “For this lot? No way am I investing any energy in you load of twats.”

Zayn laughs then, tugging Louis in for another hug. It’s different, there’s a change in Zayn, softness to him that wasn’t there before. It’s not naiveté, nor is it an act; but a strange quietness to his voice, his demeanour, and his eyes. Perhaps he got tired of fighting against the entire world. Perhaps he took his armor off.

“Thanks,” Louis whispers, though what he’s thankful for, he’s not sure. Zayn nods, taking a second to brush the fringe from Louis’ eyes like Louis does to his to his sisters.

“I’m happy to see you, Lou, gotta admit,” he smiles, “Good to see you alive and walking.”

“I try,” Louis shrugs.

“Keep trying, then,” Zayn affirms, nodding to Harry and Niall cooking side by side in the kitchen. “He’s getting better, you know. He’s realizing his foolishness, at least.”

“I know,” Louis looks down at his feet.

“S’not easy for him, Lou,” Zayn acquiesces, shaking his head to himself like he’s said it a million times, “He’s just got a heart too big for his body, you know. Doesn’t know how to protect himself from these types of things. Doesn’t understand you can’t just go around loving anybody, you know, it gets you into trouble.”

“It makes him a better friend than he could ever ask for, though,” Louis adds, because he has nothing else to say.

Zayn considers it, “Yeah, but at what price?”

“I’ve asked myself the same thing,” Louis admits bitterly, “The exact same question.”

Zayn nods. “You’ve sacrificed a lot for everyone around you, Louis. You tear yourself up because you can’t heal as quickly, but you know what – those wounds don’t always go away like they should. They’re open. They might always be that way. Raw. It took me years,” Zayn pauses.

“...Years to find some light. Some goodness. Sometimes it’s in a person,” he nods to Harry’s back, his loose black t shirt exposing his back dimples, “But most of the time, Lou, it’s in yourself. You’ve got to stop trying to be the best for everyone else, and only be the best you can for you. Until then, mate, you’ll always be asking if it was all worth it.”

Louis’ throat is dry. “But what if it wasn’t? Worth it, I mean. What if I come to conclusion that this pass year – it was all for nothing.”

“It’s always worth it, Louis. If you thought it was the right thing to do at the time – it was worth it.”

Dinner is peaceful and full of laughter. Louis hasn’t laughed so hard in weeks, maybe even months. He’s missed it. He’s so full of missing it that he can barely hold on to what they have now, at the usually unused dinner table, finger prints smudged on the mahogany, and this is okay, Louis thinks. He’s going to be okay. He’s got to be.

-

It’s dark, deep into the night, when the stars are tired and start to trickle down into the city smog until it’s just black and gray and heavy on Louis’ chest. The bedside lamp is on in their room, beside a bed Louis hasn’t slept in three weeks. Halloween is next week. Louis wonders what the girls will dress up as, if at all. Perhaps they’re too old for that now. Louis certainly isn’t ready for them to grow up.

Harry is sitting in the middle of the bed on top of their quilts, wearing boxer briefs and a loose tee shirt, old and stretched around the neck line. He reminds Louis of that sweet, appled cheeked boy, with a dimple peeking out every time he smiled, with a retainer on his teeth during his six form, his thick lashes blinking up at him the first time they split a zuke together and smoked it, or when he was just about to drift to sleep. He used to shiver right before he was drifting off into R.E.M, Louis remembers on the nights he would stay up, sometimes just to watch. He would scratch his mosquito bites too hard while he slumbered on and they would bleed all over his sheets in the summer.

“Hey,” Louis says, his sweatshirt riding up on his hips. Harry crawls over, sitting at the edge of the bed with his feet pidgoen toed inwards, looking up at Louis will his big owlish eyes. His hand reaches out, a slight tremor in his fingers, to trace a large, ugly scar over Louis’ hip. It’s new and still tingly in some places.

Harry places his entire hand over the expanse of Louis hipbone, sheltering it and encompassing it with warmth. He looks up again, brows drawn, and nearly head butts Louis’ stomach. “I haven’t heard you laugh like that in ages.”

Louis smiles, “I was happy.”

Harry nods, a smile on his mouth, but not quite spreading to the rest of his face, “I know.” Then he looks up, devastatingly beautiful, and says, “I’m scared.”

Louis braces himself, pursing his lips and looking in the direction of the windows, above Harry’s head. “I let you down,” Louis admits, twisting the knife in his gut, “I’m struggling.”

“You’ve pushed me away, Lou,” Harry croaks, rubbing his cheek on Louis’ sweatshirt. “You don’t want me anymore.”

“That’s not true, Harry, not at all,” Louis rushes, bending down and wrapping his fingers in Harry’s curls, “I couldn’t love another person with every decimal of my being like I love you. I want you always. Indefinitely.”

But Harry shakes his head, face scrunching up and no, no, this is not what Louis wants to ever see. No. “I can’t make you happy anymore. I’m failing at making you better.”

“Harry,” Louis says, feeling his eyes prickle, “I can’t make myself happy. It’s not you, it’s never been you. You’ve done so much for me. You do so much for me.”

Harry is silent, so Louis prods on, crawling into Harry’s lap and brushing his palm against his curls. “You do,” he whispers, “You make me laugh when I think I could never laugh again, you make me smile. You...make the bed, and feed Parker in the morning before class. You help sooth the nightmares away. You’re there. You’re there, even when I’m barely hanging on.”

Harry nods numbly, so Louis continues, “I’m scared too. I’m scared that I can’t find a good place inside myself anymore. I don’t feel like I used to. Different,” he adds, “It scares me. I’m scared I’m never going to see my sisters, or that you’ll get tired of me, and leave and I...I’m scared I’m not strong enough to hold myself up.”

“You did, though,” Harry whispers, mouth full of his own heart and tears, “You were so strong, you sacrificed everything to take care of the girls. You withstood Robert, you are so strong, Lou. You can’t see it, but I can.”

“The things I did, Harry,” Louis whispers, burying his face in his hands, “What I did for him. I betrayed everything I ever knew or stood for. I don’t...I can barely survive the shame.”

He begins to weep. Harry holds him close, rocking him gently as Louis lays his head on h shoulder. His chest feels like it’s on fire; this is grief, he knows logically, but it’s so powerful and blistering, his brain thumping thunderous and heavy behind his eyes.

Harry lies them down, turning off the lamp and curling around Louis like he’s a child being soothed to sleep. “Tell me,” he says to Louis, eyes bleary and brave, stark and honest. So Louis does.

The stories spill out of his mouth, gritty and ugly like an oil slick, black and sulphuric;  pure poison.

_You’re ugly._ Robert would remind him, when he was wearing a pair of pants that illuminated his love handles. _I can’t take you anywhere, you might embarrass me. I can’t believe you thought this meal was a good idea. I just don’t understand how you think you’re intelligent. Are you going to make me come over there? What makes you think you deserve any of this? Show me you deserve me. Show me. Don’t talk back to me. Sit still, Louis. Sit_ fucking _still_.

He cries through all of this, shame coursing through his body like wildfire, all consuming and searing at his throat. Harry holds on to his hands like a life line, like they were moulded there and he can’t let go. He swallows it all, the first time Robert humiliated Louis in bed, the first time he hit him, the first he locked Louis in the hall closet because he didn’t get up early enough to make breakfast, the luncheons, Tropicana social events and the GLAAD media parties, keeping up his appearance, trying to lose weight, Daisy starting to wet the bed, and pretending he wasn’t crying when the girls got home from school. And how Louis felt when he saw Harry that first time, how much he wanted and craved and needed him. Harry, his beacon of hope. Harry, his light.

“I’m sorry,” he chants when it’s all over, when he can’t say anymore, rocking slightly, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Lou,” Harry swallows, “Lou, it’s okay, shh, shh.”

He still can’t talk about the rape. The first time, or all the others. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know where the line ends or begins with consent in a relationship. He’s scared. He’s so terrified he might have wanted it. He’s so terrified he might have asked for it.

Louis grapples at Harry’s hands, scratching him slightly, “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to see you cry.”

Harry nods, biting back his own tears, “I know you didn’t, Lou. I know you wanted to save everybody from hurt, I know. I look at you every night and every morning and I just want to keep you safe. I want to keep you safe from every bad thing.”

Louis knows. Louis knows exactly.

“I hope you still think I’m beautiful,” Louis whispers, unable to wipe his face anymore. He feels his hysterics wind down unto a soft simmer in his torso. His body is exhausted. He is exhausted.

“I do. I always have,” Harry braves a small smile, “You were always the most perfect boy to me.”

“I hope I can feel that away again,” Louis murmurs.

“I can make you feel that away again, I can,” Harry assures, “I will.” He kisses Louis’ temple, the side of his cheek bone, his earlobe. “I want you to feel beautiful.”

Louis nods numbly, “Go slow. I want to savor it.”

Harry kisses him, lips cool and soft against his skin. Louis dropped weight since Harry left England, and especially since Florida, and Harry finds new patterns and bones to trace on his skin. He holds Louis, keeps him warm as he hovers above him, mouth dipping to his collarbone, fingers trailing up underneath his shirt.

Louis realizes, as his cock grows hard and his body starts to react with wanton, with need, that they are not tragedies strung out beneath the sun, and his scars don’t make him sink him like anchors, but give him wings: Look at me, they say, I have survived.

Harry ruts against him, hand ghosting over the stiff line of Louis’ erection, taking his time and allowing Louis to say no. Maybe that’s what he’s been searching for. Maybe Louis has wanted the ability to say no.

It’s the first time they’ve been sexual like this since Harry had been shuffled into a walk in closet in a suffocating bedroom in Florida. Louis shuts his eyes, cheek hitting the pillow, letting his hands grip the sheets and allowing his spine to relax. There is nothing wrong with this. Harry’s mouth is firm and wet and he’s gentle – he’s gentle. He’ll stop if Louis wants him to.

They rock slowly together, like their hips are taunted by unknown strings, Louis jerking as Harry covers him with his mouth, sliding over his dick, his mouth like a hot tight vacuum. Louis stutters, of course, touching Harry like he doesn’t know how, like he hasn’t been touching him for the past four years. Maybe he needs to relearn. And maybe that’s okay.

His orgasm hits him low in the gut, and he shudders, Harry wiping the back of his mouth and sitting up to look down upon. He’s smiling, a little spittle on his chin, his cock hard in his tented pants.

Louis reaches up with trembling hands for the waistband, but Harry stops him, “No,” he says, pushing his hand down and readjusting his pants. “When you want to. Not when you feel like you have to.”

“I...thank you,” Louis admits, blood flooding his cheeks. Harry flops down next to him, a satisfied grin on his face. He shrugs into the covers, curling around Louis like a big floppy dog. Louis’ gut twinges, but he feels supple and loose, on the brink of sleep.

Everything is warm, and the lights of the city peek through their blinds like a bronze glow. It comforts him, not to be pitch darkness, and to have Harry by his side, his large hand cupping Louis’ smaller one.

“Night, Lou,” Harry whispers, breathe hot against his neck. There’s a stray curl tickling his earlobe.

“Good night, Harry,” Louis whispers. When he sleeps, for once, he doesn’t dream.

-

Harry finds him the next morning in the bath. Louis’ toes are pruny but he doesn’t care. His arms envelope tightly around his scarred knees, his joints gangly and severe in contrast to the rest of his body as his bony butt digs into the porcelain of the tub.

“Lou?” Harry knees down beside the tub, fingers dipping into the water, brows arched up in worry. “This water is cold. How long have you been in here?”

“Could you tell me that poem again? The one part that we like like?” Louis reaches for Harry’s hand, his skin now damp.

Harry looks like he doesn’t understand what Louis’ asking until realization dawns on him. He thinks for a second, perhaps recites it in his head, and then speaks in a low, deep drawl that he sometimes carries, “ _Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us. These, our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we’ll never get used to it_.”

“Scheherazade,” Louis mumbles, “You always had a soft spot for Siken, didn’t you.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry shrugs, smiling, “English major and all that. Contemporary gay poetry, right up my alley.”

“Dunno why I’m in this bath, really,” Louis says after a moment, holding himself tightly. “Sometimes I just wake up with the urge to feel clean. And then I just end up being in here for an hour.”

“That’s not healthy, Lou,” Harry shakes his head sadly, “You are clean.” He lifts his nose to smell Louis’ hair, just rinsed of Freesia scented shampoo as if to prove his point.

“I know,” Louis' shoulders sag, “I know it isn’t. I feel helpless to stop it.”

“You aren’t helpless to anything,” Harry nudges him softly, “You’ve always been the strongest, bossiest little arse I’ve ever known.”

Louis laughs, stepping out of the tub when Harry opens a towel for him. He holds it tightly around his shoulders and follows Harry out of the bathroom where his clothes lay. He must have set them out before he took his bath. He can’t remember exactly.

He gets dressed. It’s a soft blue shirt and old trackie pants, dark and weathered. He never did like white much.

“Thank you,” he turns to Harry, starring at the lumbering six foot length of his boyfriend, his naughty curls falling over his forehead and around his ears, his green eyes almond shaped and pretty. _To fall in love with such a boy_ , Louis realizes. _To fall in love_.

“For what?” Harry shrugs, swinging his arms around childishly. He has the leash in hand, and Parker looks up at him, half begrudgingly, half eager, waiting for his walk. Louis doesn’t answer, doesn’t know where to begin, so instead he slips his sweater on and Harry his hat and together they take their dog for a walk.

The leaves are already falling.  The whole world is red. Harry’s smile is painted on inside of Louis’ wrist, bright and cheeky, something beating in Louis’ chest other than his heart.

-

His fourth meeting is in the middle of November that year. It’s a crisp, brittle Fall afternoon, the brown leaves crunching underneath his feet, few left on the nimble tree branches. Eleanor and her greyhound Penelope walk alongside him as Parker keeps pace with his snout by Louis’ knee.

“You think you might want to share today, maybe?” Eleanor asks, sipping a pumpkin latte. Her hair is piled on top of her head with a gold headband.

“Dunno,” Louis shrugs. Last night he spent an hour on the phone to Lottie, and then Daisy and Phoebe. With them in mind, it’s easy to pretend nothing ever hurts. “I want to, you know. It’s just, every time I start to speak, my throat closes up.”

“It’s okay to be scared about talking about it, Louis,” Eleanor reminds him gently.

But Louis shakes his head, “I don’t think I’m scared,” he admits, “Not anymore. I just don’t think I’m ready, yet. I want to give it more time. I want to figure out what I want to say.”

“You can say anything,” Eleanor says, “it doesn’t matter to us.”

“I know, Eleanor,” Louis smiles, pulling her into a one armed hug, which she gracefully accepts, head on his shoulder, “but it matters to me.”

Jonathan isn’t there. Timid Mimi talks first. “My mother called me for the first time in months two days ago. My father died last week. He was the one who abused me for so long when I was growing up, until I was fifteen and moved in with my mother’s sister. Auntie Jamie told me, later, that it was a small service. Hardly anyone went.”

She takes a deep, shuddering, breath, “I imagined this day for years, you know? I thought all my problems would be solved if he had just died. It wasn’t fair for him to touch me, it wasn’t okay, and I didn’t want it. I was just a girl. I thought if he were to go away, permanently, I would be okay again. I would heal. Now...”

Eleanor turns seventy-five percent of her body towards Mimi, giving her all her attention. Alice has her chin in her hand; eyes squinted like she is in pain.

Mimi continues, “Now, I will never get to say goodbye to my father. How awful is that? I hated him, I wished he was dead for so long, and now that he is, I never got to say goodbye...” She holds her head in her hands in such a way that is strikes a feeling of queasy déjà vu inside of Louis. It reminds him of Niall and the similar way he had held himself. Fetal. Protective.

Mimi sniffles, “My mother told me he didn’t go easy, that his cancer was taxing and painful. I say, good, you know. I told her that he deserved it,” she shrugs, wiping her eyes. “My mother hung up on me. But I don’t expect anything less from her. She never could grapple with the idea that her husband was anything but angelic. He was a preacher, after all.”

Louis always feels gutted after these stories, like he’s ate something funny and he can’t exactly see the world right side up through the ache. His grief for these people, and himself, is like a fever. It’s hot and delirious and sparks anger inside of him: fierce frustration that some women wear their bruises like badges and men are proud of their scrapped knuckles. That violence is a currency – one only available to the most privileged. There is no one single bad guy out there. There is no demonized criminal everyone can point out exactly and know to stay away from.

Evil has no identity. There is no way to know whether or not the next time you go outside you’re walking in Wonderland or the spider’s snare. Louis has absorbed so much shrapnel from a tall, tanned, good looking man with nothing on his plate but money and an excessive need for control. Perhaps it was not fate, but luck, that Louis walked into that Costa cafe on that day and met him. Perhaps another boy had been taken in my Robert, one who had grown up mistaking violence for love, who had been taught to keep quiet, who had never known anything better. And perhaps that boy hadn’t made it out alive: perhaps he would never understand that there is light underneath his skin, that there is hope just beyond the horizon.

Louis sees his demons, just as Mimi – and Alice and Eleanor – see their own. To him, it is a citrus smell and white clothing, the way his hands smelt after they had been dipped in bleach, enclosed closets, and Cuban cigars smoke. Those things aren’t caped crusaders, obvious villains in all the comic books Harry used to read as a kid, but they still make his skin crawl. They still remind him that evil can be in every ordinary looking person sitting next to him.

“But,” Mimi’s ending words resonate deep inside of him, following him all the way home, “at least now, I belong only to myself.”

-

There’s a missed call from a Florida number when he gets home, slobbery ball in hand and Parker eager by his side, tail wagging and Louis feels his insides shut down. An icy drip encases his organs and his gut clenches like he’s ate something off. He feels the panic rise in himself like an itch.

He calls Liam. They sit at the kitchen table next to the cell phone as if it’s going to ring again at any moment. Liam has shaved his head in the past few weeks that Louis hasn’t seen him. His boyish, golden blonde hair is now replaced with a darker looking buzz cut. He looks older, graver, and something inside Louis twinges at the deep circles under his eyes. Liam never knew when to quit while he was ahead, when it all got to be too much.

“You should call them back, whoever it was,” Liam nudges, his hands folded on his mouth contemplatively.

Louis can’t do much more than shrug. “I don’t care what they want,” he says bitingly, staring intently at the little black phone. “I don’t care if he’s alive and they’ve revived him or it’s a fucking zombie apocalypse down there, I don’t want to know.”

Liam sighs like it pains him. “We need to get our stories straight, Lou, in case...”

Louis cuts him off, shaking his head vehemently. “That’s not going to happen. He shot himself dead. We had nothing to do with it.”

“But Zayn...” Liam eased, “Zayn and him fought. We were there. We pushed him into the river. He could have been...”

“I know you and Zayn had a falling out,” Louis hissed, “But aren’t you going to protect him? What does it matter that they –” Louis sighs heavily, calming himself, “We didn’t have anything to with it,” he reaffirms.

Liam looks like he’s been slapped, “I’d do anything to protect him, Lou,” he says softly, looking outside the window for a second like he’s seeing a different view. “I love him.”

Louis looks down in guilt for a second before sliding his hand across the table and grabbing onto the weave of Liam’s fingers. Liam smiles, but it’s a hardened grimace of a smile, the kind you get when you grow up too fast and face reality without a filter. Louis smiles back at him, knowing his own face looks much of the same.

The phone rings between them. They share a moment together; a look that says _It’s okay. I’m here_. And then Louis knows, so he answers the phone.

“Hello?” Louis says, his voice shaking. His chest feels like an ice box, tense and shuddering.

“Hi, I was trying to reach a Mr. Louis Tomlinson,” a female voice with a thick, unwavering American accent comes through the other line. Her voice is deep like it has resurfaced from the ocean, thick and wet like melted butter. She pronounces his name Lewis.

“This is he,” Louis says carefully, “May I ask who is speaking?”

“This is Caroline Fielders, Mr. Tomlinson. I’m calling you on the behalf of Robert W. Remwick’s estates and the executive of the will. I don’t want to be the one to deliver this news to you, Mr. Tomlinson, but Mr. Remwick has been officially announced deceased of an apparent suicide.”

“Oh, god,” Louis breathes, hoping his relief sounds like grief, “When was he found?”

“Three weeks ago. He traveled a great distance, we think, in hopes that his body wouldn’t be found by locals. He was loved in this area by many, Mr. Tomlinson, as you well know.”

“Yes,” Louis grits his teeth as Liam holds his other hand, squeezing it, “Yes, I remember the community treated Robert very well. They looked up to him.”

Caroline Fielders hums, and Louis can hear the shuffling of papers in the background. “I’m here because we just extracted his Will recently. A year and a half ago, he directed a small piece of his fortune for you, shall he perish early, God rest his soul.”

“He – he did?” Louis stutters, “I had no idea of this occurring.”

“A letter will be sent to your place of residence detailing you how to transfer the money given you’re in another state. Robert detailed that you would be left with twenty million American dollars, which would be accessible to you once you turned twenty one. Which, by my calendar dates, you already have passed that obstacle. Congratulations, Mr. Tomlinson. And I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Happiness, guilt, the unexplainable golden feeling that burns his insides like he’s made of the sun, like particles, like molecules, forming together, creating this unbalancing, wonderful, aching hope inside of him. “Thank you,” Louis breathes, like it’s the first thank you he’s ever said and ever meant. “Thank you for this.”

“A large memorial will be thrown for Mr. Remwick, which will be hosted by the Florida GLAAD center, as he was a prominent figure in the LGBT community, and made constant contributions to the LGBT shelters and centres here. He is also commemorated, as it’s been recently revealed through his autopsy that he was already dying of AIDS,” Caroline carries on, before sighing heavily. “He will be missed, Mr. Tomlinson, as I’m sure you can understand. If you can send my office your precise address we can forward all the documents necessary to execute the Will. I hope you have a good rest of your day, Mr. Tomlinson. Goodbye.”

It’s almost too much for him to process at once. He sets his mobile down back on the counter between them, a silencing thwack of metal against marble. Silence stretches on between the two of them, Liam looking on expectantly, worriedly.

“I – ” Louis starts, before taking a deep breathe and closing his eyes. “Robert was already dying, Liam. He was already dying and he knew he was and he left me money.”

“He was – what? Of what?”

Louis opens his eyes, staring into across Liam’s shoulder to the windows outside. It’s nearly evening. Harry should be home soon. “Some kind of cancer. He...he left me enough to take care of the girls, and myself, and Harry...I don’t know what to feel.”

“He fought so hard to get back, though he knew he was dying soon anyway...why?” Liam muses.

Louis shrugs, “We may never know why. To have the last word. To have the last laugh.”

Liam grimaces, “I don’t want to believe people are so cruel.”

“I think,” Louis says, clearing his throat, “I think, if you hadn’t intervened, he intended to take me with him. Together until death, and all that.”

“Oh, Lou, you can’t possibly – “

“You didn’t know him like I knew him, Li. I _can_ possibly think something like that. I saw the insides and outsides of that man. For him to leave me money,” Louis smiles ruefully, “Perhaps that was his apology. Perhaps he knew I was going to make it out, despite his best efforts.”

Liam frowns worriedly, pulling Louis closer, “So it’s over then. You’re free.”

“Yeah,” Louis sighs, feeling his body sag into Liam’s side, the smell of detergent and cigarette smoke pungent. It’s an odd combination, give that Liam has never smoked in his life. He reaches up to rub the silky top of Liam’s head, despite his protest. “Yeah, I think I might be.”

-

“We can have that house now. Wherever you want, we can have it. We could stay in New York, if you like. Move upstate, get a little colonial piece, live on the land. You could transfer to school there in the Spring, and we could...we could plant a vegetable garden,” Louis smiles, murmuring into Harry’s bed of curls.

Harry traces the naked expanse of Louis’ soft stomach, “A lot of carrots. And corn. I can show the girls how to grill corn and zucchini on the barbecue. We can eat outside during the summer, teach them how to swim, even celebrate Fourth of July.”

Louis wrinkles his nose, “Scratch that last bit. It’s a dreadful holiday in my opinion.”

Harry laughs, full and unfiltered, “Well, if it’s your opinion we’re planning our life on, then we should probably all stop wearing socks, and um...listen to Girls Aloud.”

“Just because I don’t always appreciate your witty indie shite doesn’t mean I don’t have other musical interests besides _Girls Aloud_ and Robbie Williams,” Louis scoffs. He picks up Harry’s hand, intertwining their fingers and placing his palm over Harry’s palm. He withdraws, only to re-intertwine them again. Harry watches like a child using a kaleidoscope for the first time.

“I still can’t believe he left you twenty million dollars, Lou,” Harry sighs, kissing the underside of his chin. He blinks, smiling up at him in this youthful, confident way. “What are you to do with all that money?”

“Buy a house,” Louis sighs, “Replace Liam’s car we left in Ashland. Pay off our student loans. Bring my sisters to me again. Make a life with you.”

“Make a life with me,” Harry smiles, “I think that’s all I have ever wanted.”

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” Louis whispers, bracketed by Harry’s arms and looking up into his hovering face.

“Thirteen years of friendship, four years of us, and it means the world to me. Here’s to a hundred more years of it.”

Harry sighs at Louis’ remembrance of that phone conversation almost exactly a year ago. He smiles, kissing the bridge of Louis’ nose “A hundred years to us.”

-

Eleanor takes him to a clinic the next morning for a blood test. She sits with him, drawing doodles on her fingernails with pink sharpie and humming along to a soft melody that Louis asks her about once he catches himself humming it too.

“Is that a song from somewhere?”

She plaits her hair from one side, tying it with elastic, “It’s a song by The Smiths. _Asleep_ , have you heard it before?”

It sounds honestly like something Harry would listen to. “No,” Louis shakes his head, “It is a lullaby?”

Eleanor nods, “A lullaby to death. An ode, perhaps, if you will.”

“Grim,” Louis concludes.

“Beautiful,” she contradicts, “Depending on your position.”

The clinic nurses take Louis’ blood along with a urine sample and send him on his way. He feels jittery, nervous, but once he steps back onto the New York street he knows: one way or another. Fifty-fifty.

“Okay?” Eleanor asks, taking his hand and pulling him along. Penelope and Parker walk side by side, a graceful lop next to an eager strut. Louis nods. Okay.

They walk into the basement of the Church together, too early for group, and eat half the baked goods setting out on the table. An oldies radio station is playing; an Elvis Presley tune called _I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You_ , Eleanor informs him. She picks up his hand again, circling him in the middle of the chairs. They spin together, before slowing to an easy pace, with her head on his shoulder. He holds her small hand to his chest as they rock across the floor, listening as the tune whittles away and dies out. And then all they are left with is each other.

“You are my best friend, Lou,” Eleanor says into his chest, “I love you so much. I do. Sometimes I see you in every wonderful thing.”

Louis bends his chin to kiss her forehead. He misjudges, slightly, and ends up kissing her eyebrow and eyelid, but Eleanor doesn’t seem to mind. She holds him tighter; another song comes on soon after. They keep dancing until three in the afternoon settles upon both of them. If Eleanor starts to cry, Louis doesn’t say anything.

When group settles in, and everyone’s smoked enough cigarettes to warrant a fire violation, and the terrible coffee has been drunk, Louis raises his hand. He sees Eleanor out of the corner of his eye, beautiful, waifish, her watery brown eyes looking at him like she couldn’t love and adore anyone else more, like he put the sun in the sky just for her.

“I think I’d like to talk today.”

-

Parker is in the door before Louis is, his leash already trailing behind him into the house. Harry had packed most of their things already, save some of the clothes they need to wear out through the weeks. When his fall semester ends the first week of December, their packing up a rental and heading north. Ithaca, perhaps, where Harry has already begun the process of applying and transferring, but maybe somewhere farther North, maybe a woodsy area like Saranac Lake. Somewhere it’s blistering in the summer, perfect for river wading, and snowing in the winter, to illuminate their Christmas lights.

When Louis walks in it’s not the usual stilted, stagnant silence of Liam’s great aunt’s massive apartment, but four giggling little girls, running straight for his kneecaps. He expects the bruises, gladly accepts them.

“Louis!” His name is repeated over and over, by which sister he doesn’t know as he drops the few groceries he had picked up and scoops Daisy and Phoebe up in his arms, kissing them both. They pull at his cheeks, as Fizz attaches herself to his left leg, hands wrapping around the bone like she’ll never let go again. Lottie, beautiful girl, is standing by Harry, who is wearing a green shirt and the brightest smile Louis has possibly seen in his life.

These are his girls too, Louis knows.

This is the sunrise of his life. The horizon of his future is in front of him.

“I’ve missed you so,” Louis gushes, kissing his sisters to an inch of their life. His heart is at the rate of swelling to the brink. He lopes over to Harry, who takes Daisy into his arms and cuddles her, before grappling at his shoulders and holding him tightly. “Thank you,” he whispers, so his sisters can’t hear him.

Harry nods, eyes wet like the romantic he is, before turning and swinging Daisy around like a mere leaf. She giggles wildly, head thrown back in happiness. Phoebe is tugging at his hair, her legs cinching around his side when he tries to put her down.

“Louis,” Lottie comes to him, hugging him around the middle, “It’s been shit without you, brother.”

“I would say not to curse in front of your sisters,” Louis laughs, “But I think you’re incredibly owed a few curse words, after everything. I am so happy you’re here. I’m never going to let you get away from me ever again.”

Lottie laughs, “Ever? I’m looking forward to you keeping that promise, when we’re all teenagers and you’ll be tearing all your gray hairs out.”

“You’ll keep me surprised, I’m sure, Lots,” Louis’ face hurts from smiling. He hugs his eldest sister and closest friend even with Phoebe glued to his side, “I missed you so much.”

“Me too,” Lottie nodded, eyes wide and understanding. She knows. “Thank you for bringing us home.”

Home for Lottie or her sisters isn’t New York. Or Florida. It’s nothing that resembles the states at all. It’s not England, either, where they grew up: the cobble stoned town centre of Doncaster, the backyards of their mother’s home, smelling of flowers and her favourite boxed wine and olive oil. It isn’t Harry’s beat up old car they used to drive around when he first got his driving permit, though she spent a considerable time in the back seat of that, be bussed around from cinemas to shopping centres to restaurants to hang out with her friends.

Home for Lottie is where Louis and Harry are. And she knows this. And Louis’ never felt so much love in his heart all at once before, but if it is possible to describe happiness as a tangible, touchable, thing, here it is. Here it is.

-

They sleep in the front room all together. Harry turns the couches around and creates a canopy by tucking a blanket between the front cushions and thus cultivating a fort. They girls decorate with their blankets and pillows, arranging them around for everyone to sleep. Felicite is given the honour of picking the movie after they all draw straws, and she picks The Princess Bride.

Harry lies on one end of the fort with Daisy on his stomach, playing with the wisps of her hair. Louis is on the opposite, with Felicite by his knees and Phoebe still close to his side. Parker is curled up at their feet, happy to protect his little family. Lottie lies in the middle, for once not protesting that she is too old for forts and silly movies. Another time, Louis would appreciate her willingness, but this time, he thinks she might need it too.

As the girls drift to sleep near the end of the movie, Louis turns his attention from the screen to look at Harry. He’s never built castles, or defended his honour in a knife battle, or written his name in the sky, but with just one look Louis can see the makings of Harry’s soul. Perhaps they never had a chance, destined for each other, breaking those around them like water that beats against the rock – are they water, or the rock, Louis doesn’t know, but he’s stepped on a lot of backs to save Harry, to make Harry his. He doesn’t mistake the sacrifices he’s made as purely selfless – he knows where his heart has always belonged. In the hand of a boy who only knows nothing else. Maybe it‘s foolish. Maybe it’s terribly foolish. But it’s exactly the place Louis wants to be.

-

He takes the girls shopping. It’s always something he’s wanted to do, but never could. They each get a cupcake at Magnolia, the famous bakery, and Harry manages to get frosting in his curls. Parker eats the rest of Fizz’s carrot cake, must to Louis’ discontent. They stroll down 5th avenue, where Lottie poses in front of Tiffany’s and wishes she were wearing black so she emulate Holly Golightly, and towards the end of the day they end up in Central Park Zoo.

Louis wonders if this is what the rest of forever feels like. If it is too good to be true. His spine still tingles, and though Harry and him don't hold hands like they used to walking home on the dirt roads in Doncaster, it’s enough. It’s worth it, Louis thinks. Zayn was right. It’s finally all worth it.

When the evening has turned black and blue with stardust and the November chill is starting to finally crawl in, so they take the girls home with the promise of breakfast for dinner and big hot chocolates with marshmallows in them.

There’s a missed call from Eleanor when Louis gets home after he turns his phone back on, but he figures he could call her tomorrow before group. He has so much to tell her – excited ideas of the girls getting to meet El, and having someone finally do things with that don’t revolve around doing what their big brothers want to do. But for now, it will wait.

An envelope waits on the counter from the clinic that stands out above all the rest in their pile of mail on the kitchen counter. Louis takes it, slipping into the bathroom as the girls titter around Harry, badgering him to start their dinner.

With shaking hands, he opens the top of the envelope to see if they found any traces of HIV in his system. Robert had made sure of making him bleed plenty of times. Unfolding the paper, he scans down to the very bottom. This is it. One way or another. Fifty-fifty.

“Louis?” Daisy calls, “Louis, where are you?”

“I’m here, Dais!” Louis calls, shoving the envelope behind a stack of hand towels hurriedly before wiping his hands on his pants and walking out into the hallway and through to the brightly lit kitchen. Harry’s cherub cheeks, grinning at him from across the counter, pancake batter on his face and light in his eyes. Lottie, standing with her arms crossed, Parker wagging his tail at Fizz, as Phoebe sneaks a finger in the batter.

“I’m always here,” he says, smiling into his future.

-

 


	4. Mandarin Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, everything was so fucking beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings from previous chapters apply here. There is a specific scene in this story that is violent and depicts rape. If that will trigger you I advise emailing me where I can edit that small part out and send you a different copy. There is also one instance of infidelity, and a small character death.
> 
> If there are warnings I have not added that I should, please let me know.
> 
> One more chapter left! Then this verse will be finished and put to rest. Thank you!

Mandarin Sun [4]

-

_Next time I'll be braver_

_I'll be my own savior_

_Turning Tables_ , Adele

-

Of all people to call him at ten past eight in the morning, Niall does not expect to see Louis’ name on his phone screen. His bones feel like they might break as he rummages his bedside table for his phone, blinking blearily and wiping the sleep scum with the back of his hand. He fumbles with the touch screen, dreading what on earth could come at the end of the other line.

Then his stomach drops: Harry.

It’s too early for this – his mind chugging sluggishly to grip with reality of whatever news he’s about to receive: car crash, injury, _death_.

He takes a deep breath, “’Lo?”

“Ni,” Louis’ voice is tinny through the phone and sounds so small it’s nearly mousy. He doesn’t sound good. Niall sits up, clammy hand gripping his mobile. “Ni, does Harry have class today? I’ve forgotten,” Louis says, and maybe he tries to laugh but it falls short and he makes this choking sound.

Niall racks his brain, “Yeah, he does, Lou. Ten am lecture, I think, on Romanticism.”

He hears Louis curse under his breath, “Can you – can you meet me at Mt. Sinai on 77th? We’re up on the fourth floor.”

It’ll take Niall a good twenty minutes, seeing as he’s still barely awake and probably in real need of a proper shower and taking the subway to the Upper East Side, so naturally he says, “Be there in ten.”

Louis sighs heavily, and Niall entertains the idea of all the tension built up in his shoulders relaxing as if he’s leaked out of him. He remembers the way Louis would settle down like that after a long day of class and studying in his dorm, curled up next to Harry with a mug of Yorkshire tea in hand, as Niall and Harry would start up a game of Fifa – football was something they shared in common, after all.

Niall stops his line of thought when it enters Harry-territory. There will be none of that if he wants to do anything this morning, let alone get up to 77th in ten minutes.

He forgoes the shower, instead hastily spraying deodorant on and finding a shirt that looks at least half clean. His hoodie and jean jack are hanging on the back of his studio’s wobbly, water-logged front door and he grabs them, reaching for his glasses and keys before he locks himself out.

-

The subway is a particular kind of wet and nasty and he rubs a hand over his sleep-clammy face, pushing his black framed glass up on his forehead and rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake up. He checks his phone – no new messages from Harry since last night, so whatever Louis’ crisis is, Harry is unaware of it.

Great.

The last thing he wants to do is getting involved in the epic saga that is Harry-and-Louis. Again.

When Niall met Louis and Harry in the fall of their first year at NYU, they were these bouncing, bright new international students with the promise of a beautiful, famous city, trying to adapt to the American way of life with wide eyes and wider smiles. In retrospect, everything was so fucking beautiful. Everything was so fucking perfect.

But that’s over now. Louis is the epitome of a creature who has seen the darkness and come back from it, Niall thinks. Edgy, self-destructive, sad, wonderful. There are bits and pieces of old Louis that shine through, Niall knows, through all the bullshit and scar tissue and shrapnel he’s absorbed from the past year. Making sly innuendos. Wearing his old chinos. Cursing under his breath when they watch football on TV. Things that remind you that Louis is there, somewhere, underneath it all. Things that make it real, make it hurt. He wonders how Harry is dealing.

He pinches the skin on the inside of his wrist. _Stop that_ , he reprimands himself. _Don’t think about him_.

When he exits onto the metro onto street, the crescent shape of his nail is still imprinted on his skin, a sharp pink contrasting the pale canvas of his arm and fading slowly and, well. It wouldn't be the first time Harry had marked him in some way or another.

-

Louis is the only one in the PICU hallway, standing outside of room seventeen. It had taken a while for Niall to find him, seeing as he wasn’t in the waiting room.

It still unsettles him, seeing Louis without a smile on his face all the time – the image of Louis in Niall’s brain is so effortlessly preserved to remember him as a nineteen year old freshman at NYU, tanned skin from the summer sun, golden fringe pushed back from his forehead, blue eyes twinkling in mischief; a curly haired, clumsy Harry somewhere not far behind him.

Now, Louis is an inch or two shorter than him in stature, as Niall got his long awaited growth spurt late last summer and shot up like a twig, and his face is pinched and pale. Louis wraps his arms around his thin, piqued torso like he’s protecting himself. His hands and lower forearms are covered in faint, pale, burn marks that Niall can barely just make out.

“Hey,” Niall says, reaching out and pulling Louis into his arms. Louis shudders, not speaking, and he smells of Harry. Niall buries his nose into the shell of Louis’ ear, resting for a moment. His face feels heavy. He’s so tired, but not from lack of sleep. He’s so tired of this. He pulls back, and up close Louis’ eyes are red-rimmed and puffy like he’s been crying for hours.

“Tell me what’s happened,” Niall starts, because if it’s not Harry inside room seventeen in the PICU ward, then Niall can’t imagine who is – Liam? Zayn? One of his sisters?

Louis shakes his head mutely, tucking his lips between his teeth. Then he says, “Harry wouldn’t answer his phone.”

Niall nods, “He’s in class, it’s probably off, I’m sure when he’s finished he’ll turn it back on and come straight here-”

“That’s not the point,” Louis shakes his head frantically, “I need him here.”

Niall grimaces. “I’m sorry, Lou.”

Louis shoots him a look, before wiping his dripping nose with the loose end of his sleeve and staring straight ahead at the curtained glass wall that protects room seventeen from sight. “My friend Eleanor tried to commit suicide last night. Her cleaner found her this morning...they say she might make it.”

“Do you – do you think so?” Niall asks. Louis wipes his nose again, shakes his head no.

“She called me a few nights before, and I didn’t answer. I was with Harry and girls, and I saw it, and I didn’t answer.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Niall says quickly, intercepting Louis before he can continue. “There’s no way you could have known.”

Louis lets out a sharp, horrible bark of laughter before choking back a sob. “I think I did, though. The signs were there, Ni. They were all there – and I was too fucked up to realize it. She’s my only friend here outside of you lot – and I just...I didn’t want to fucking face it, you know? I couldn’t face her sadness, I couldn’t face my own, I can’t do anything –”

“Stop,” Niall says, taking Louis by the shoulders and facing him, “Stop this. You’re not doing any good by being like this.”

“Eleanor didn’t deserve what happened to her,” Louis says indignantly, like Niall has said something completely different. He wipes his nose again, “She didn’t deserve any of it.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, “No one is saying she did.”

“I think _she_ thought she did,” Louis whispers, collapsing in the hardback hospital chairs in the hallway. He buries his face in his palms, still eclipsed in his too-large sweater. It looks like it could be Harry’s. Niall’s gut clenches. “This is so fucked up, Niall. Why are we so fucked up?”

Niall lets out a small, bitter chuckle at that. Louis leans into him and breathes sadly; his face smoothing out blankly as he stares at the room again. “Dunno why everything has gotten the way it has, Louis. I woulda told you if I could. All I know is we’re all we have left.”

Louis’ face crumples again. “Never do anything like this, okay? You hear me? No disappearing, no running off to marry some rich psycho, no tearing friendships apart, no suicide attempts. Harry would never be able to move on from it.”

“I think Harry will be okay as long as he has you, Lou,” Niall murmurs. His throat is suddenly tight and sticky with guilt.

“That’s not true,” Louis says stoutly, and for a second Niall has déjà vu of Louis saying the same thing almost two years earlier, during the spring semester over a game of _Never Have I Ever_ , and Harry had accused Louis of targeting Harry and getting him drunk first. That seems like decades ago, not just under two years. “That’s not true. He loves you. He needs you in his life. You’re his best friend.”

 _And you’re the love of his life_ , Niall wants to say. _I could never compete with that_.

Instead, he says, “Harry should be getting out of class as we speak. Do you want to me to run to yours and bring you a few things? Clean clothes? Food? A winter jacket?” he gestures to Louis’ thin sweater and pyjama pants and then to the brittle November weather outside.

Louis nods, checking his phone. He passes Niall a key chain with house keys on it and Niall reaches down and hugs him one last time, face buried deep in his hair. He smells faintly, underneath the Harry and the saline scent of crying, of citrus. Niall wonders what that means. “I’ll be back a half hour, tops, okay? Let me know when Harry gets here.”

“Okay. Of course. Thank you,” Louis mutters, rubbing his eyes harshly. When he reaches the end of the hallway he turns back to look at Louis find to him fixated on Niall, jaw tense and eyes searching. Niall nods and Louis nods in return and they don’t say a word.

-

It’s unsettling, being in Harry and Louis’ dwelling without them being there. The apartment is one of the nicest places Niall himself has ever seen – no doubt a trademark of Liam’s impressive lineage, he's sure. The air inside the apartment in reminiscent of the stale smell of breakfast porridge and cold coffee. There are dishes still left on the counter and the sink lets out a slow continuous drip.

Signs of Louis’ sisters are everywhere, though they’ve only been in New York a week at most. Kids are like that, he supposes. Smearing themselves all over. Leaving imprints. He sidesteps a large basket full of stuffed animals and other move in boxes, down the hall and into the bathroom.

He’s reminded full force that this is probably the last place he wants to be – in Harry and Louis’ little _nest_ , a firm reminder of the life they have in place. Everything just fucking _fits_ here, like its all part of this grandiose pattern that Niall can’t figure out. Harry’s dirty cable knit socks on the cold bathroom tile, next to Louis’ slippers underneath the sink. Their two toothbrushes, one red, one green, sitting by the sink next to a half empty tube of toothpaste. The bathtub is still filled with water, stagnant and cold from earlier. He’s reminded overwhelming of a pungent orange smell.

Niall shuffles, grabbing a toothbrush – he’s guessing Louis’ is red, seeing as Harry’s favourite colour is green - toothpaste, Louis’ glasses, and a small wash cloth. All the towels are squished awkwardly in a tiny built in cabinet above the toilet, and Niall ends up accidentally flinging all of them onto the ground when he tries for the one.

“Shit,” he grunts under his breath, using one hand to hold on the stuff he has for Lou, and trying to stuff them as quickly as he can. When his hand hits something sharp and smooth, he realizes he’s holding an envelope. It isn’t too odd – his mam used to hide her bills and letters all over the house, the paranoid old hag that she was. The envelope says _Louis Tomlinson_ on the front, and it’s been opened already. From peaking on the lip of the letter inside, it says ‘confidential’.

So naturally, Niall opens it and scans it, not quite believing what he’s reading. His spine prickles like someone is behind him, and he steps quickly out of the bathroom like he’s been spooked and into the master bedroom. He dumps all the toiletries into a bag, searching for a pair of joggers and a clean jumper for Louis – when he pauses as the realization dawns on him. He stands up and looks around.

Their bedroom. If the bathroom was startlingly intimate, the nausea Niall feels to be here is nothing in comparison. He wants to throw up, but he hasn’t eaten anything. He can’t help but let his eyes roam over the mussed bed sheets, Harry’s side table littered with badly cared for volumes of John Keats and Nathaniel Hawthorne – books for his Romanticism class. His bedside lamp is still on. Louis’ retainer is sitting on the other bedside table, along with a magazine and a half empty bottle of water.

Niall looks away, letter still crumpled in his hand. The view of Park Avenue must be beautiful when it’s clear out. Distantly, Niall's happy that it’s raining and gray and miserable.

He needs to get out of here before he hurts himself. He grabs Louis’ parka off the hook on the way out, fumbling with the faucet to stop it’s dripping.

He should have never offered to come here, Niall thinks to himself, numb and shaken. The letter burns a hole in his coat pocket, fingers wrapped still tightly around it as he makes it way back down into the metro station. It’s like he’s a glutton for pain.

His hands are shaking again.

-

Back at Mt. Sinai, Harry has inevitably left class and made it to Louis' side in no time. Niall feels numb, blind and cold, shoving the clothes and bag at Louis forcefully, aware he's not looking at him properly. Harry's thumb is brushing over Louis' shoulder, methodically.

Louis looks more at peace than Niall has seen him in recent times. Soulmates do that for you. His watery eyes take on a droopy, bloodhound look to them as he offers a smile to Niall.

"Thank God you answered, mate," Harry stands up, engulfing Niall into one of his back-breaking bear hugs. Niall turns his face away from Harry's neck, even though his pulse is thumping underneath his skin and Niall just itches to bury his nose into Harry's juglar and take a deep, cathartic, breath. He doesn't. Instead he smashes his cheek so hard into Harry's windbreaker the bones protest.

Harry's hands linger too long his back. This is always how it starts.

"Of course, of course," Niall shuffles, and Louis sighs, rummaging through his bag. Niall runs a hand through his unwashed hair, probably flat and wet against his head. "You alright, Lou?"

Louis head shoots up to look Niall's way, and all Niall can think about is the letter burning a hole in his backpocket. His brow furrows, watching Niall watch him. "Yeah, I mean, it's looking up for her, and..." he fades off, closing his eyes tiredly for a moment.

"No," Niall shakes his head, "Are _you_ okay?"

Silence. Louis opens his mouth once or twice before closing it again, like no one has asked him that question in a while. And maybe it's the sad reality, a truth Niall didn't want to hear: maybe it is the first time in a long time if Louis' okay. If _Just Louis_ is fucking okay.

Niall excuses himself then, citing he'll be late for his lab if he stays any longer. Harry hugs him again, this time his mouth somewhere near Niall's crown, and Louis' eyes flash; perhaps in warning, perhaps in pity. Niall doesn't know, and he doesn't care. He thinks he might puke.

At the last moment he turns like he did just an hour ago to look back. Harry is wrapped around Louis again, octopus limbs swamping Louis' now shrunken frame, eyes staring unseeing at room seventeen. Niall takes a split second to look Louis once more and he's met with pure, unadulterated shock. Maybe horror. Maybe just surprise. Realization dawns on him, and Niall feels himself nod - maybe just an increment, hardly an acknowledgement. But acknowledgement all the same.

He hurls on his way back down to get on his train. It's mostly water and stomach acid, and it burns the inside of his mouth the whole ride home.

-

He goes to his classes that day because he has to, being both on a visa and a scholarship at NYU - even though he feels like death himself. His lab day isn't even on Wednesdays. He wonders if Harry would realize later on, and then thinks better of wondering about Harry at all. He digs his thumbnail further into the soft skin of his wrist.

It's a long day. All Niall can think about is the envelope he stole - he fucking _stole_ it - from Louis' bathroom sitting inside his marine ecology textbook on his desk in Brooklyn probably collecting dust because his place tends to run on the shithole side of pretentious. But it is what it is.

He arrives home to a stuck, water-fucked front door after a long day, muscles absolutely slaughtered from sitting all day, rigidly, partially soaked from the downpour outside. All he wants to do is lie down and not wake up until the next morning, maybe make himself a microwave curry. If he's feeling really luxurious, maybe he'll make the trek to Whole Foods and find himself a take home burrito.

Instead of doing any of what he imagined, he comes home to a skittish, gaunt Zayn, curled up on his couch look like he's been through the ringer.

Niall sighs and it's like his lungs are filled with lead. "It's been four days. I don't even wanna talk to you right now."

Zayn is smart enough to at least look half-ashamed. He nods, picking at a thread from one of Niall's lumpy pillows. Niall throws his school books down, making sure to bury that marine ecology book at the bottom and promptly turns around back to his front door.

"I'm leaving. Don't expect me back anytime soon," he says tersely, not looking at Zayn.

"Ni..." Zayn says quietly, standing up and hunching his shoulders inward. There are deep, dark bruises underneath both his eyes like he hasn't slept in nearly a month. Knowing Zayn, he probably hasn't. "Look..."

"Don't. It's not like I'll believe you'll be here when I get back anyway," Niall says without turning around. He unsticks the door after a harsh pull.

"I will be, though," Zayn says, a hint of pleading in his voice, but it's not enough.

Niall looks back him for a moment and wishes he hadn't. Niall has seen Zayn naked before, but not in this way, with his soul stripped bare. He looks so fucking strung out, though. Niall wonders if it's drugs or the night terrors he knows Zayn has or something else entirely. Niall's had plenty of ideas of what fucked Zayn up so badly - but no clues on how to help him.

This is usually the point where Niall starts to worry - letting love fester and eat away at his entire being, until he's nothing left but a doormat, an entry way - and. He's seconds away from splitting at the seams as it is. He grimaces, shaking his head again. This is not who they are: never has Zayn been so dark and Niall so unhappy. He tries not to blame what happened on the riverbank in Ashland, Mississippi, but it’s hard not to point fingers.

"Don't," is all he says, slamming his front door behind him.

-

He ends up at a bar two blocks away from his apartment. It's a dive, the kind that still smells like smoke years after the ban and attracts young bros who want cheap thrills and older women with bruises on their thighs. Niall doesn't care that it isn't trendy or cool - fuck, he's so sick of that shit anyway, and sits himself down at the bar, producing his fake id and orders himself a beer.

He still has to remind himself not to say pint. The urge is there, though. Sometimes he misses home in the most peculiar way. It's like missing hunger, or a toothache; something familiar, unpleasant and unclean.

One beer turns to three before he has made rowdy conversation with a guy sitting next to him - Matt, or maybe Mateo - who has brown eyes that scrunch up when he laughs and a clean shaven face. Matt starts to buy him drinks, a black card nearly hidden by his palm and Niall wonders what a kid like this is doing down here. If he wanted to slum it in Brooklyn, there were plenty other cooler places to be than here.

The bitterness ebbs. The coldness in his chest seems to soften as the night goes on. Niall feels numb and warm, eyesight swimming as the bar starts to spin. He focuses and refocuses when Matt's talking, trying to keep up and pretend he isn't as drunk as he is. Matt comments on his accent and how it sounds like he's curling his tongue around every word, and Niall says, _well, I can be pretty good with my tongue_.

He's never said anything like that - and Matt raises his eyebrows, before bursting in rambunctious laughter. Niall can feel the blood in his cheeks, in his belly, in his arms. It's too hot in here, and he's wearing three too many sweaters.

"Can I," Matt says, reaching over and plucking Niall's glasses from him. Niall blinks, vision more blurry and disorientating than before. Matt puts them on his own face, and looks like a university student, too smart and too pretentious for his own good. Matt says, "You look better without glasses."

Niall shrugs and can feel himself deflecting. He's used to comments about how he looks. They don't bother him anymore. He tries, at least. He tries.

"C'mon, lets go for a walk," Matt ushers him, grabbing him by the sleeve of his jacket and stepping out into the brisk cold. Niall blinks, still unable to see. He waits for a moment expectantly for Matt to give him back his glasses. He doesn't.

They walk for a little while, too fast for his stumbling feet, and Niall doesn't recognize where they're going - can't, really, without his glasses. Matt doesn't look go of his arm. Niall wonders distantly if he could tug out of his grip; if Matt would relent or not. He wonders, distantly, just what kind walk this is.

They end up taking a sharp corner into an alleyway when they stop, Matt hunched over lighting a cigarette, Niall closing his eyes against the breeze and breathing in slowly. It's fucking freezing out. His nose is probably bright red.

Matt has his glasses pushed up on his forehead against his floppy brown hair, pushed back in some kind of pompous quiff. He must be a University student - maybe Columbia, or Lang, or even NYU - Niall squints, tries to gather his surroundings, but it's dark, and Matt's blowing smoke into his face.

Several things happen at once: Matt crowds up against him and Niall trips backing up into the wall, back twisting against the brick and throbbing with pain as he crowds in, nicotine breath on Niall's cheek.

"What," Niall slurs, unable to look into Matt's eyes. Matt says nothing, instead biting into Niall's mouth, kissing him until he's sure there's been blood drawn from his bottom lip. Its like it's been split, and then he can feel Matt's hands all over his shoulders and neck, pinning him there, his hands large and forceful. Niall's too hot again, blood boiling. He can't breathe.

Matt turns him around, pushing Niall's cheek into the brick, and Niall backs up when he hears the clink of a belt, scrambling, before crying out when an elbow lands in the middle of his back, eroding away at his vertebrae. His cheek feels like it might explode. He's suffocating.

"Hold on, wait," Niall hurries, gasping, trying to get his bearings and unable to see anything. The alley smells like grime and piss, and the brick is cold and wet, roughly digging into the skin on his face, back bent in a painful, inhuman way.

"Wait? Wait for what?" Matt laughs, grunting, and Niall can feel Matt's naked, swollen dick pressed up against the cleft of his ass. He closes his eyes.

"I'm not gay, you know?" Matt says suddenly. "You're just easy."

It feels like puking. It feels like ice on warm skin, burning and freezing at the same time. It feels like being torn apart. Niall grunts, biting his lip to keep quiet and tasting blood, his arm aching and pinned in a way that sets his whole body on fire. His teeth are scraping the inside of his cheek, the hot fire throbbing inside of him, the rough catch of skin on skin After a while it starts to get easier when Matt thrusts in. Niall wonders if he's bleeding. It feels like Matt's hands bruise, and bruise, and bruise.

He laughs after. It rings inside of Niall's brain as he pulls up his pants and wipes his face of the tiny gravel imprint in his cheeks. Matt lights another cigarette and pushes Niall roughly against the brick again, face first and without warning, nose hitting the stone harshly. He hears, distantly, through the blood gushing out his nose and into his hand and face, his glasses clattering on the cement. When he scrambles for them, sliding them back on, the alley is empty.

-

He has to kick his goddamn door open. The apartment is empty. He sheds his clothes on the floor, turning on the shower as hot it as will go to help him sober up. The water that swirls down into the drain is bright pink. Niall feels like he could curl up in the tub and fall asleep right here. He doesn't.

He stays under the spray longer than he ever has before in his apartment. The water has long turned cold. Finally, enough is enough.

He shivers, rummaging for clean pajamas and pulling them on, tugging on sweaters and socks and long sweatpants. He pushes his hair back, rubbing his glasses of any residue moisture. His apartment is dark and drafty as he crawls into bed, holding the blankets over his head to block out any street lamp.

It's then, finally, when the quiet has put the night in it's place, that he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and starts to sob.

-

His head throbs in the morning, part hangover, part bruise. He dresses mutely, unable to think as he eats a banana in two bites, shuffling his school work together. He's ten minutes late to his first class. For once in his university career, Niall doesn't care.

Class is drawn out and boring and Niall has trouble focusing. He feels as if he hasn’t slept at all or too much entirely, his vision becoming more tunnel like as the morning grows into afternoon. There seem to be bruises protesting against the thin tissue under his eyes.

And maybe there are bruises, in fact. He purposely did not look reflection of the blacked out windows that lined the Brooklyn streets at half past seven this morning, nor the reflective surfaces at any metro stop. There are some things he can’t confront.

He finds Liam in the photo lab during his free hour before a Chem III class, hunched over a large black diary, a glue stick in hand. Magazine and photo cutouts surround him, a camera without a cover close by, it’s lens slightly scratched. Niall looks for the scratch every time, a reminder of when Liam and Zayn were on good terms, strolling down west tenth, fingers brushing, and Liam had laughed so hard at something he had crushed the front end the camera against the brick exterior of a building so tall Niall had to crane his neck until it nearly touched his spine to see the top.

He clears his throat and Liam turns around, a weary, tired, look on his face, which softens when he sees Niall clearly. He slams the diary closed, so all Niall can see is the flat black leather cover, and plenty of extra pages added in. The spine of the book looks exhausted. This is not new. For three years Liam has been working, tirelessly, on diary after diary, and never once has he let anyone see anything inside of it.

“Hey, Ni,” Liam says, a knobbly wrist running through his close shaved head. “Jesus, you okay? What happened to your face? You look hungover.”

“Something like that,” Niall chuckles humorlessly, scrunching his nose and feels a hot reminder of the night before. It’s bruised, hopefully not too grotesque. “Got too drunk, you know how it is. I didn’t want to be the one that asked you this, but has Zayn been ‘round yours?”

Liam stretches and cracks his back, hand tracing absentmindedly against the four black arrows against his forearm. One for each of us, Niall thinks to himself, and is struck by the sudden sadness he feels. At one point, in a different universe, perhaps they still could have been just as close as they once were when they first met. Magnetic, all consuming, infectious friendship. Brothers. Liam, aristocratic, regal, itching to escape. Zayn, brooding, poor, and made of heart, guts, and bones. Harry and Louis, two souls intertwined, like a sanctuary, or a death sentence, or unrelentless, ageless love. And Niall. And Niall.

“I did...a day or two ago. Must have been a day ago, come to think of it,” Liam says.

Niall frowns, “He disappears sometimes. For days. I haven’t spoken to him for weeks proper. Or seen him eat,” he adjusts his school bag against his aching, burning, shoulder. “Thought you and him weren’t speaking anymore.”

“I wouldn’t call it speaking,” Liam says bitterly. “More like he shows up to remind me how much he hates me, and then we fuck, and he leaves.”

“Liam,” Niall says softly, like a sigh. He’s tired. Liam at least looks abashed, the same sort of expression Zayn had just a short while ago, picking at his cheap couch cushions. “As long as he’s somewhere.”

“You talked to Lou? He’s still at the hospital. His friend, Eleanor, she’s slipped into some sort of non-responsive state. Not quite a coma, but. Won’t leave her side, I try to get him to come over, but he won’t.”

It’s Niall’s turn to feel bitter, “I don’t think Lou wants to talk to me, of all people.”

Liam’s expression turns dark. “That’s not on you, you know that. That’s all on Harry. Harry and his bullshit.”

Niall can feel his tongue reach back in his mouth, sharp, ready to strike, but he realizes; no. No. _Do not defend him like you’re so used to doing, like defending him as he become your blood, the muscle memory, the way his bones are set in place; no._ He falls silent, pregnant pause between them. Liam looks caught between proud and disgruntled, surprised, maybe.

Finally Niall says, “I miss you. I want you round. I want to see you all the time like we used to.”

Liam closes his eyes like he’s resting, and smiles. “Brooklyn is far.”

“You can afford the trip down,” Niall jokes, an old banter between them since he made the move south of the bridge, out of Liam’s prime territory. “I know you’re going on your trip soon. Do you know yet where they're sending you?”

Liam bites his lip, looking evasive. He drums a glue stick on the computer table. “No, not yet. Soon, by mid-December, I’ll know.”

“Well that’s not far, is it? Just two weeks, then, and we’ll see you off and again when you come back,” Niall smiles.

Liam laughs gently like he’s humouring Niall. “’Course, that sounds nice.”

It’s the last thing he says. Niall sits down at the opposite computer and starts to create a study guide for his finals in the next few weeks. Liam starts cutting out something out of a large book that Niall can’t decipher from his chair. They work in silence, Liam’s angular face pinched and concentrated as he spreads his slender, long fingers over layers of collaged paper. He doesn’t open his notebook again. Part of Niall was hoping, maybe, he would.

-

It’s the second night in a row Niall is looking forward to an empty apartment. Maybe he’d catch up on all those forgotten Law and Order episodes he wanted to keep up with, or get some take out, or perhaps a long hot shower. But those things don’t happen. Instead, he gets a phone call.

“Ni,” Harry breathes, like he’s so happy to hear Niall on the other end, contented, bubbling with pleasant surprise. “Look, I need a favour – can you come over and watch the girls while Lou and I are at the hospital? Lou doesn’t want to leave and well – I feel – “

“Harry, of course, yeah. What time?” Niall says, standing uselessly next to a newspaper stand, hair wet and flat against his forehead again. His glasses are cloudy with rain. He can’t be bothered to pull up his hood.

“Thank you so much, Niall,” Harry gushes. He sounds like he’s near a busy street uptown. “I think half five would good, yeah? I’m here now about to pick up the little ones from school and feed them before I’m back to the hospital.”

“No problem, Haz,” he says distractedly, ignoring the constrict in his throat when he thinks of Harry and Louis’ girls. They are, admittedly, the biggest reminder of all how rooted Harry is in this relationship. There is no question, no doubt in Harry’s mind. He is their brother, and now maybe, a father figure – a rooted symbol in their life. Non-negotiable. He sighs to himself, turning around and heading the opposite direction from Brooklyn. All the shop windows in New York are decorated for Christmas. It’s already dark out, and the tea lights twinkle like stars. It starts to rain harder.

Niall doesn’t pull up his hood.

-

The girls are long in bed by the time Harry lets himself into the apartment. Niall must have fallen asleep on their living room sofa because he startles himself awake at the noise, rubbing his eyes, the television turns down low.

His hair is wet from the continuing downpour outside and he shakes out his parka and sets it on a chair to let it drip onto the carpet. “Hey,” Harry says quietly, “I’m sorry I took so long.”

“S’fine,” Niall shrugs, sitting up slightly onto his elbows, “what time is it?”

“Past eleven. Louis said he’d catch the next train, he just didn’t want to go yet.”

“Christ,” Niall shakes his head, “he’s been there all day?”

Harry nods solemnly, “He doesn’t do well with letting go of things. Or people.”

Niall rubs his eyes, feeling the couch dip when Harry sits down next to him. Feels Harry’s hand, too, when it touches his shoulder. _Fuck_ , Niall thinks resignedly. Fuck.

“Hey,” Harry says quietly, “you okay? You don’t seem yourself, lately.”

He sighs quietly, rubbing his clammy hand over his mouth, tasting the sleep on his tongue. “M’okay,” Niall finally answers. “I’ve been having bad dreams, is all.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks encouragingly, and Niall would almost say he sounded hopeful about this confession. “About what?”

“About what happened in Mississippi,” he swallows, not daring to look at Harry head on, “about what we did.”

Harry’s so close Niall can feel him nod. He murmurs in agreement quietly but doesn’t say anything, and his hand doesn’t move away from Niall’s shoulder. He doesn’t seem to have anything else to say, so Niall goes on.

“Zayn’s dealing with it the worst. Disappears sometimes for days. I think he’s been squatting with some people he knows,” Niall swallows. “They’re not good people.”

“Shit,” Harry sighs, “He seemed okay when we all had dinner a few weeks ago, I thought - “

“Me too,” he agrees, “It comes and goes. I shouted at him last time he showed up at my flat. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Harry’s fingers come up to touch Niall’s chin, turning his face towards him. Niall swallows, takes in the prettiness of Harry’s face, his curls pushed back with a headband, his green eyes, the rosiness of his cheeks, the way his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. This boy is all Niall’s ever wanted.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Harry says, and then nods, expecting Niall to nod back.

He wants to do what Harry says. He wants to expel the sickness in his gut. But life isn’t a fairytale. He’s not got some prince charming to curl up with every night, justifying his actions under the guise of ‘us against the world’. That will never be his story.

Niall shrugs lifelessly, suddenly more tired than he realized. Harry’s thumb is still on his chin, where the dimple is. Niall watches like he’s in a slow motion moment of a movie as Harry leans in, touches his lips just briefly against Niall’s. They’re wet, and they taste so, so sweet.

They kiss again, a string spit between them, Niall’s hand on the couch, his shoulders aching with the way he’s twisted to touch Harry but he doesn’t move, doesn’t want to break the spell. He feels Harry’s other hand come up to cup his cheek, cradling him close, his tongue breach into Niall’s mouth, and Niall feels himself sink into it, and he wants to turn his brain off, and he wants not to think about it.

His cheek aches where Harry touches him, still burnt from where it had slid against the brick. He pulls away. “This isn’t a good idea.”

He wishes Harry would protest it, tell him that it’s not true so Niall could believe it, but he doesn’t. He nods quietly, eyes downcast. Niall stands up.

“I don’t like it when you’re upset,” is what Harry says. He’s not sure if that’s an excuse or a reason or whatever the fuck that means, but Niall feels suddenly nauseous, like he’s just received terrible news.

He rubs a hand through his hair, feeling old. “That’s not how friends cheer up friends, Haz. You can’t do that.”

Harry nods, a curl flopping over his headband and onto forehead. He tucks it back from his face, nodding to himself. “Look,” Niall says quietly, “you know how I feel. But - I’m your _friend_. Not a comfort toy.”

“I would never think that,” Harry says, but it’s weak. “I’m sorry I kissed you.”

 _I’m not sorry,_ he wants to say. He wants to scream it. _I’m not sorry, and that’s the whole fucking problem. I’ll willing to break_ backs to get to you.

Niall walks himself to the door, sliding his jacket on. “I know. I’ll see you tomorrow at lunch. I love you.”

-

Niall stares at his reflection in the windows of the subway on the ride home. When he emerges from underground, he tries calling Zayn, tries to ask him to come back. He needs to say sorry. He needs to make sure Zayn is okay.

It goes straight to voicemail, which means it’s either dead or turned off. Niall’s just thankful it’s not disconnected.

He thinks of Harry, his red mouth, his childish, inexperienced hands, the way he tastes like Louis even though Louis isn’t a taste. _Enough_ , Niall tells to himself, pinching the skin on the inside of his wrist until it hurts. Enough.

-

He takes the hottest shower his water heater permits, scrubbing at his skin. His cheek is starting to throb, the last of his ibuprofen wearing off on the ride home. Niall palms the shower wall, letting the water hit the back of his head run down his head. This way, he can pretend he isn’t upset.

When he emerges in just a towel, he’s not alone. The gaunt line of Zayn’s shoulders are the first he sees where he’s perched on the end of the sofa, cheek sucked in one side where he’s chewing on his mouth. All the hard lines around his eyes are softened when he takes in Niall’s bare chest.

Niall is the first to speak. “Hey,” he murmurs, and for a split, ridiculous second he feels as if he’s approaching a battered animal. “I’m…I’m glad you’re back, mate.”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, eyes glazed over. He doesn’t say anything else.

Niall sighs, walking around his bed to his drawers, his knee snagging on the corner and making him twitch with pain. He’s had that bad knee since he was in school, and he knows how to live around it, but once in a while he’ll prod at it just know it’s still there, and it still hurts. It is not unlike the way Niall treats the people in his life.

Zayn spooks him when he turns around, suddenly up in his space. He hadn’t even heard his approach against the dusty, water damaged hardwood. Niall pulls on his shirt the rest of the way and swallows, staring into the intensity of Zayn’s glare.

“What happened?” Zayn speaks softly, fingers coming up to touch the bruise on his side, disappearing around the corner and spreading onto his back. The ferocity that Zayn carried with him, the same fire that used to fuel his anger and make Niall feel stupidly safe has been muted; snuffed out. Niall wonders if it’s what happened in Mississippi alone or if it’s the long number of events in Zayn’s shitty life that has finally brought him to his knees.

Zayn taps the bruise with his index finger when Niall doesn’t say anything. “Hey,” he says, “Tell me.”

Niall makes an indiscernible sound, pulling the hem of his shirt down. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t relent, not that Niall expected him too, but back’s Niall against the dress, hand coming up to cup Niall’s cheek. He smells like nicotine stained fingers and aftershave, intoxicating and sharp. “Niall,” Zayn shakes his head, frowning, “Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?”

Niall catches Zayn’s wrist and pushes it away from his face, the feeling of his touch still lingering. His nostrils flare. “I said nothing. Why isn’t once enough for you?”

Zayn’s jaw twitches. “I don’t like it when you’re upset.”

The amount of times he’s heard that recently makes him want to laugh cruelly, but something in Zayn’s broken, glassy stare breaks him, and he slumps down onto his bed in his pants and a tatty t shirt, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

He feels the dip of the mattress next to him. “Why you apologizing to me? I’m not blaming you.”

A pool of warmth grows in his belly, tender enough that he grabs hold of Zayn and tugs him down back onto the mattress, curling up into his side. Niall hides his face in Zayn’s shoulder, pressing his cheek against his hand-me-down quilt, wishing the world would disappear.

“Niall,” Zayn whispers, “You’re worrying me.”

“I can’t right now,” is all he can muster, and Zayn seems to accept this by the way he wraps his arms tighter around Niall, cheek pressed against the wet crown of Niall’s head. Niall tugs on his shirt then. “Don’t leave me.”

He’s given no response, but when Niall wakes up in the middle of the night to slide underneath his blankets, Zayn is still there, sound asleep.

-

Zayn stays.

Whatever happened to him the last time he disappeared into the deep wells of the city must have shook him enough to stay away from those people. Mostly he just sleeps, curled up in Niall’s quilt while Niall’s studying or lazing around the flat, as if he’s timed it so they don’t have to confront all the shit between them.

Niall’s stack of science fiction novels have been rearranged on the bedside table, the _Illustrated Man_ dog-eared and buried between rumpled sheets. He doesn’t ask Zayn what he thinks about mankind, because he knows it would be an answer he wouldn’t want to hear. There’s something unsettling about loving person who has seen a war and come back from it.

Harry texts him funny anecdotes and whether or not Niall wants coffee in the morning, and Niall can’t find it in himself to reply to any of it. He knows he should, and the guilt nags on him every time he pictures Harry’s crestfallen face, but he remembers the way Harry had kissed him to placate him, to make him quiet, and the nausea won’t leave him for the rest of the day.

Zayn senses it, he knows Zayn does. Niall has always hidden behind a smile and happy-go-lucky persona, content with being the goofy sidekick, always down for a laugh and pint, but it’s exhausting. He’s not a fucking frat boy, he’s never been, and he’s tired of pretending to be easy just for everyone else’s sake. He just wants to bury his head in his studies and sleep New York away.

-

“Harry came by,” is the first thing Zayn says when Niall lets himself in. He’s soaked through his jacket, droplets of rain water dripping from his hair and down his cheeks. He was forced to take off his slicker to protect his books once it really started pissing down. Zayn is sitting cross legged on the couch in a pair of Niall’s sweats and a t shirt with a stretched out collar, his hair flat against his forehead.

“Did he,” Niall mutters disinterestedly, trying to pull his wet clothes off his skin and disrobe. He knows his voice is flat and distracted, even though his gut clenches. “What’d he want?”

“Told me he was worried about you, ‘cause you weren’t returning his calls,” Zayn raises his brows as Niall peels down his jeans, letting them thwack on the floor. It nags at him until he turns back and places them on the radiator to dry. Niall waits for Zayn to ask. “Is there every alright with you two?”

“I thought you didn’t like when I talked about Harry,” Niall says instead.

“Don’t be a prick,” Zayn bites. “What’d he do?”

“See, that’s the problem,” Niall starts, “You just assume it’s _him_ who’s done something. What if it was me?”

“I doubt it,” Zayn returns haughtily, nothing happy about the bitter laugh that follows.

Niall rounds on him, bare-chested, wet, and defiant. “I’m sick of defending him to you. I’m sick of trying to hold the peace between all of you – you wanna talk about Harry? Fine, let’s talk about Harry. Then we’re gonna talk about Liam.”

Zayn’s eyes flash, and he stands up, mouth twisting into something ugly. “I’m warning you not to dredge up shit you don’t know about.”

Niall scoffs, feeling his face flush. “And I could say the exact same thing to you, Zayn. You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

“At least I’m not a pushover,” he spits back, and Niall feels something clench in his chest, a memory of brick crushing against his cheek. The heat drops between them, Zayn’s harsh tone still ringing in the studio, tension rearing back and making Niall suffocate.

Finally Niall shakes his head, rummaging through his dresser for a dry shirt. “You wanna know why I haven’t returned Harry’s calls? Because I’m trying to get over him.”

“Niall,” Zayn’s turned soft now. When Niall turns to him, he looks admonished and small. “Niall – I “

“You know,” he interrupts, mouth still raw with hurt. “You know what it’s like to love someone so much it’s almost suicidal. I know you do. Please let me do this. I _need_ to do this.”  

He rubs a hand over his eyes, suddenly exhausted and still facing a few hours of studying anyway. He can hear Zayn come up to him, pulling his hand away, his fingers combing through the flat damp hair falling on Niall’s forehead back.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, mouth near Niall’s temple.

Niall chuckles wetly, “You sayin’ sorry? Jesus, has the world frozen over?”

“Probably,” Zayn replies flatly.

-

“I have a lot to atone for,” Zayn tells him later. They’ve taken to sharing the bed, knees touching as they curl up on their sides. Niall is no stranger to falling asleep snuggling the hard corners of textbooks and finding pencils stuck into his shin. This is a nice change.

“No, you don’t,” Niall disagrees placidly. Zayn opens his eyes, blinking languorously, his eyelashes still visible in the dark.

“I do,” he protests, but it’s resigned and sleepy. “I need to stop acting like a fucking victim.”

They lie there quietly for a moment before Niall feels the palm of Zayn’s clammy hand curling around his fingers, resting there. They fall asleep like that, one after the other.

-

Harry is standing outside of one of Niall’s lectures once it lets out, and Niall feels his breath catch at the sight of him; it’s nearly been a two weeks since they’ve talked. He’s letting his hair grow out, and it’s a wild mess nearly touching his shoulders, his black boots pigeon toed inwards as he stand with his book bag, lip tucked between his teeth.

“Niall,” he calls, waving him down, and Niall panics, turning and trying to weave through traffic in the hall, wishing he had stayed home today. “Niall!”

It’s a futile, immature attempt, and Harry’s hand grips the back of his jacket and pulls, until Niall stops trying to walk away and turns around. It’s cold out on the steps, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hey,” he says gently, his eyebrows furrowed with intensity, “Hey, what’s going on? Why haven’t you responded to me – I – are you angry with me?” the last part is tacked on hastily, like Harry’s just realized it himself.

“I’m not – “ Niall starts, and then stops himself. He takes a deep breath and holds it. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m angry with you.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says automatically without batting an eye. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m so sorry, Ni.”

“But that’s the point,” Niall says lowly, “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

“Tell me,” he demands, almost childlike. “I’ll make it better.”

“Jesus,” Niall curses, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Look, you can’t. You can’t make it better. I’m sorry I just – dropped off the earth. But I can’t do this with you anymore. I can’t be friends with you right now.”

“Ni, what,” Harry stutters, and he looks up in horror to find Harry’s eyes filling with tears, his Adam’s apple bobbing. They’re standing on the steps with other students filing around them, jostling Niall’s book bag as they pass, and Niall is overwhelmed, his skin goose bumping. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying – “Niall swallows, and words have never felt so tangible in his mouth before this. Everything about this seems definite and harsh, and he wants to puke. He steadies himself. “I’m saying I’m in love with you, and I need not to be anymore. I can’t, Haz.”

“No,” Harry refutes, shake his head. His cheeks are bright red. “You’re my best mate. I can’t live without you.”

“Yes, you can,” Niall says, swallowing, “You have to. You don’t understand – how it feels. How _I_ feel. You’ve never understood it. I can’t – I can’t with you. Not right now.”

Niall wants to wrap Harry up in his arms and protect him from where it hurts – except this time, it was Niall who put the hurt there, and he’ll just make it worse for them both if he tries for comfort now. Niall feels on the brink of tears himself, never one for confrontation, and Harry just looks dumbfounded, his eyes wet and disbelieving.

 _He never saw this coming_ , Niall realizes to himself. That’s another part of the problem.

“Look,” Niall says, “I’ll call you, when I’m ready. We can talk.”

“I love you,” Harry says plainly, and it’s like a knife to Niall’s chest, wrenched in and twisting.

“I love you too,” he returns helplessly. “Always will.”

He leaves Harry there on the steps and departs hurriedly for the subway, staring at his reflection in the dirty window as he zips out of Lower Manhattan to Brooklyn. Harry’s face stares back at him, hopeful and heartbroken, and Niall’s mouth feels full of shrapnel.

-

Zayn doesn’t return until after Niall’s ordered take out and put his books away for the night, exhausted and feeble. The TV is playing repeats of _Law and Order_ , and Niall watches from his bed, wishing he could fall asleep.

“Hey,” Niall calls, and Zayn braves a small smile, his hair damp. New York’s never been so wet, but Niall tells himself that every year since he’s moved here. Zayn seems distracted and distant, pulling off his clothes and throwing them on top of his duffel in the corner, ducking down for a pair of sweats, kicking his ankle out of the leg. His bony rib cage scattered with basement tattoos always startle Niall.

“Zayn,” Niall tries again, feeling absurdly like he should snap his fingers. “Alright?”

“I just realized we’ve got less than week till Christmas,” Zayn says quietly.

Niall closes his eyes. It’s his least favorite holiday. “Yeah, sounds about right,” he murmurs, slumping his shoulders farther into his bed. He blinks again, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Zayn shakes his head, sitting cross legged on the end of Niall’s bed, his head turned towards the tv as Benson guns down an on-the-run rapist. Funny how on tv they’re so obvious. Niall knows real life is different, that there are lines and boundaries that blur together, that survivors don’t always equate victims and victims are never truly given justice; how do you return peace of mind - how exactly do you hand back bodily autonomy? You don’t, Niall knows. You never get it back in the same condition.

Zayn brings him out of his thoughts, dark and jumbled as they bump in his head. “It’s just, I told Maria I would be home by now. It’s been almost five months. I should’ve gone back ages ago.”

“A lot happened,” Niall sighs, “It’s not your fault.”

“I’m a shit son,” he laments. “She deserves someone who doesn’t fuck up so much.”

Niall sits up, crawls to his knees and pokes Zayn hard in the shoulder.

“Shut the fuck up,” his tone is cutting, and Zayn’s face is comically surprised for a moment at his burst of anger, but this doesn’t deter Niall. “It really makes me angry that you think you deserve all this.”

“Niall, what – “

“ _No_ ,” he pokes him hard again. “You didn’t ask to be born in the middle of a fucking warzone. You didn’t ask for your parents to die. You didn’t ask –you never asked for Maria to be poor, and you never asked to get kicked out of NYU. And yet you act like you did, and you carry it around, and you wonder why you’re so fucking angry.”

Zayn stares at him with wide eyes, his brown eyes so dark they make his pupils look blown, and Niall feels the rage in him deflate, worried he’s made a huge misstep. Finally he says, “I could have made better choices.”

It’s not disagreement. Niall sighs exasperatedly. “So could everyone else. You’re a _human_. There are things that happen to us – things we can’t do anything about. We can’t change them. We can’t – help them. They just _are_. These things just have to be.”

“What happened to you?” Zayn demands then, and Niall feels physically taken aback at the sudden change of direction, caught off guard and words displaced. He flinches, which only serves to bring Zayn closer.

“What do you mean, what happened to me?” Niall breathes. “Why would you even think something happened to me?”

“Liam told me you came home with bruises one night last September. Said you were bleeding but wouldn’t tell him what happened. He threw it my face during a fight once I came back,” Zayn tacks on bitterly. “Then last month, you come home the same way. There was blood in the sink, I saw.”

There’s a pause between them, Niall’s face prickly and hot.

“Fuck what you think you know,” Niall spits, getting off the bed and throwing his bedcovers down. The blood has drained from his face, but he feels heated, his cheek burning. He touches them; but it’s only a phantom feeling. He rounds on Zayn. “You are so fucked up, Zayn. I’m your best mate – you don’t need to attack me.”

“We’re like _brothers_ , Ni. Which is why I’m asking you,” Zayn screws his face up in frustration, licking his lips, “Why – you talk about the things that have happened to us, changed us. I’m asking you what happened. Why you – why you don’t let anyone get close to you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m saying, you’re friends with everyone, but everything about you is under lock and key. You never pull girls – or blokes, whatever. You fell in love with Harry because he would never love you back,” Zayn’s words feel like glass underneath Niall’s skin, and he takes a sharp breath, like he’s been gutted. Zayn just lifts his chin defiantly, eyes shining. “Admit it. You don’t want anyone to get close to you because you’re just as fucked up as I am.”

“Do you feel better knowing bad things have happened to me, too?” Niall confesses softly. He turns away, his throat hot and itchy. “We can’t all be angry like you. I deal with it differently.”

“You don’t deal with it at all,” Zayn argues, but he sounds defeated, too, slouching back against the bed with his hand running through his hair. “I wish you were as happy as you pretend to be.”

“Christ,” a bubble of laughter bursts from him, wet and sickly sounding. Niall covers his mouth. “That’s probably the nicest most fucked up thing anyone ever said to me.”

“I guess I’m good at saying nice, fucked up things,” Zayn admits with a halfhearted smirk. He looks at Niall dead on, and his stomach jumps when he sees Zayn’s jaw trembling slightly, his shoulders held in a way like he’s trying not to be upset. “I’m sorry. C’mere.”

Niall does, folding up into Zayn’s wiry frame and breathing in the musky scent of rainwater and slept in clothes. It’s the first time in a long time he’s been held.

-

Eleanor living will is executed. Liam is the one who calls Niall to tell them.

The semester wraps later than usual, and Niall and Zayn had been walking through Midtown. It snowed the night before, and the entire city – the parts that weren’t plowed, anyway, is bathed in a crisp, beautiful blanket of white. It never snows much in Ireland, just rains, and so Niall loves it, bundling himself up in as many layers as he owned, parting only with the second jumper so Zayn could wear it. There’s not much need for wool in Florida.

Liam sounds shaky and anxious, his voice unwavering under the phone, his words tripping over Louis’ name. Niall tells him they’ll be there as soon as they can, tugging on Zayn’s elbow as he traipses out of the park and heading towards the Upper East Side.

“Do you think it’s right that we’re showing up?” Zayn asks darkly with a raised brow as they round the elevator at Mt. Sinai. Niall’s overheated now with all the layers, but he doesn’t remove any, hands hanging limply by his sides.

“Yes,” Niall says firmly, because he refuses to think otherwise. “We’re their friends.”

“Are we, though?” he asks and then shrugs his shoulders like he doesn’t know the answer either.

Niall’s mouth folds into a thin line. “We used to be.”

“Well, if that’s what counts,” Zayn says dryly. The elevator stops on the PICU floor.

It’s going to have to.

-

Room seventeen is obscured largely by flowers, but the only person sitting inside the room is an elderly man with his chin buried in his palm, his face etched with deep lines. Louis sits outside in his usual perch, fingers hidden in his mouth, his red rimmed eyes wide and unblinking.

Harry stands up when they arrive, his mouth twisting into a grateful, beautiful smile. Niall tries not to look to close. Zayn nods at him, engulfing Harry in a gruff hug, holding him close. Niall swerves around them, not wanting to be embraced and sits next to Louis, tapping his knee into the side of his leg.

“Lou,” Niall says softly, “Hey.”

Louis turns to him slowly like he’s just realized they’ve arrived. He is pale faced and fragile when he pulls his fingers out of his mouth, setting them in his lap. “You’re here.”

“Of course. Liam called – did he leave?”

“No,” Louis shakes his head, his voice rough, “He’s downstairs, getting coffee.”

“Right,” Niall nods, not sure what else to say. “What’s happened?”

Louis starts to cry, fat tears rolling down his face as he swallows. “Her will says if in an event that she is comatose for longer than fourteen days, and there is no sign of revival, that she wants to die respectfully. No machines keeping her alive.”

Niall feels his gut turn. “This is what she wants, then. This is what Eleanor wanted.”

“I thought she was going to wake up,” Louis whispers, picking at the skin on his fingers. His knuckles are covered in tiny scabs, but he doesn’t seem to even notice he’s doing it. “She seemed – she seemed okay. She was – finally getting her life back.”

“I know,” Niall says quietly, moving his hand over Louis’ and gripping it tightly, his skin soft and feeble like paper.

“And now it’s over,” Louis swallows, gesturing to her form lying on the bed, his hand flapping uselessly. Niall stands and looks in through the window at Eleanor’s room. There are white lilies by her bed, fresh and blooming as if it wasn’t December. Someone has brushed her hair and laid it gently around her shoulders. _She could be sleeping_ , Niall thinks. _Taking a nap_.

Harry has taken Niall’s spot and resumes holding Louis, fingers brushing back the flat ends of his messy fringe away from his eyes. Louis’ eyes hold a thousand words for Harry and they silently converse with each other, until Louis nods solemnly and they both stand up.

“We’re going to say goodbye,” Harry says, “The doctor is coming in at eleven tonight.”

Zayn and Niall both nod, unsure what to do with themselves. Everything seems to be on hold. Niall can feel his resolve to stay away from Harry starting to wane the longer they sit there. Zayn fidgets in his borrowed clothes, out of place and edgy, his jaw ticking. Niall watches as he clocks the elevator, waiting for something to give.

“Hey,” Niall whispers, his voice barely a hoarse hum as a nurse passes them. He rubs a mitten sheathed hand over the stiff nape Zayn’s neck, “We’re here for a reason.”

Zayn bows his head, staring at the floor. He doesn’t say anything, but his body gives way into Niall’s, tension dissipating as they sit underneath a fluorescent light together, hands clasped, waiting.

-

Eleanor passes away at eleven fifteen that night, six days before Christmas. She’s surrounded by her father and Harry, Louis, and Liam. Niall watches from the door. Zayn stays outside with his head between his legs. His lips move quietly without passing sound, his eyes closed; Niall realizes he’s praying.

The city is a blanket of white and false Christmas cheer. Louis doesn’t make a single noise when she flat lines, just the quiet, sharp, intake of breath. He places her hand back down on the bed and it lies there limply.

Niall can’t breathe; the smell of the flowers is starting to smell sickly and morbid, and Eleanor’s father is solemn faced and grave looking, and Harry’s hand is on Louis’ lower back like it was made to be there, like they were made for each other. All of it suffocates him.

-

 _This doesn’t change anything_ , Niall texts Harry that night after Zayn and Niall have made it back to Brooklyn. They hadn’t spoken the entire ride home, eyes wide and unseeing as they stare blankly at the interiors of the train.

It’s harsh and unlike Niall, all considering, but he can’t – he can’t go back on what he said. This is reality Niall faces: Louis and Harry have fourteen years of history between them. A home town, the death of Louis’ mother, the shared love for the girls. They’ve crossed oceans and state lines for each other. Nothing will come between them. Harry is sweet faced, endearing, and is kind to everyone he meets, but he would kill for Louis - he would kill for Louis _again_ without hesitation.

Niall remembers the way Harry had clung to him in his childhood bed, getting snot all over his arm and holding him so tightly he thought his bones would bend at his will. That is what loving Harry is like. There are parts of him that wishes they’d never met, but knows he’d rather spend a lifetime wanting than never knowing Harry at all.

He wonders what that says about him and then abruptly doesn’t. He texts Harry, _I’m sorry_ , because he can’t let that bitterness settle between them, not like this, not now.

-

Zayn left early in the morning before Niall rose; Christmas makes him dreadfully slow and unable to bother with much. Their freshman year at NYU Liam and Louis had both bought Advent calendars. Even though Harry had eaten all the chocolate out of Louis’ early; and he had folded in all the flaps neatly so he could still count down the days. Niall tries to picture one now. Three days to go.

The night before, Zayn had returned to the flat looking drained in a way Niall hasn’t seen him for a long time now, flushed and sensitive when Niall had touched him. He had produced a large wad of cash, all twenties, and had asked Niall not to question it; just take it. Though Niall is in no need of money, he knew better than to argue with Zayn about rent and what he owed or didn’t owe: so he took it. Words were not transpired between them.

He doesn’t even wonder where or how Zayn got the money; he doesn’t want to. Like most things Niall knows, where it’s possible for actions to be weighed and made heavy with words, they’re best left unspoken.

It’s snowing when he rises from bed, and the opposite apartment building that covers almost all of Niall’s view from his bedroom window almost looks beautiful. It makes him want to crawl back into bed and never appear again. He wonders, distantly, and without much feeling, how his dad is doing.

Sometime near noon there’s a knock on the door, and Niall stands from his nest on the sofa, wondering if Zayn forgot his key again. When the door swings open, it reveals a very bundled, very angry looking Louis.

“ _Where_ is it?” Louis seethes, pushing the door open the rest of the way and letting himself in. Niall backs up, stomach flipping as he stumbles around the sofa with his hands up. His glasses slip down his nose slightly, but he doesn’t push them back into place.

“Niall,” Louis starts again, huffing, “I know you have it. Give it back.”

“I was wondering how long it would take you realize it’s gone,” Niall breathes, thinking of his text books stacked in the corner of his room. “Have you told Harry?”

“I can’t believe you,” Louis spits, “You’re our _friend_. Why would you –”

“Friend - we’re not friends anymore. You can thank Harry for that, ” Niall says roughly, unable to control his own damn mouth.

“I don’t understand what I have to do with you and Harry’s bad blood - “

“It has _everything_ to do with you, Lou,” Niall lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “So you haven’t told him, then.”

Louis falls silent, mortified and wide eyed. Niall rubs the side of his aching head. “You know, I was going to send it to him. I was going to tell him everything.”

“Why would you - why would you do that?” Louis says lowly, voice thick. He watches Niall pace around the room agitatedly, awake and angry.

“Because part of me fucking hates you,” Niall admits, and it feels sort of freeing admitting that for the first time. “You left him. You left him to get some fancy digs and a rich fucker – and I was there to pick up the pieces. I should have had a chance.”

“Harry – “Louis starts and then stops, “Harry is his own person who’s going to make choices. You know that.”

“Harry used me,” Niall corrects him, and then shakes his head, his shoulders down turned. “ _You_ used me.”

Guilt rises up on his face like a rosy blush, and Louis’ anger has simmered down into something forlorn and tired. His haggard eyes regard Niall with a redefined wariness, as if he’s seeing Niall for the very first time. Everything feels laden heavy with resentment and regret: it’s not a new feeling.

“I found it by accident,” Niall says finally, “I was all fucked up over Harry. I shouldn’t – I’ll give it back to you. But you have to tell him. You have to tell him, you can’t – “

“I don’t think you’re in any position to tell me what to do,” Louis interrupts coldly, his eyes narrow and harsh.

Niall shakes his head. “The results were inconclusive, not negative. It means if you’re – if you’re HIV positive, and you’ve been having sex with him – that’s so bloody stupid, Lou. You can hurt him.”

“You don’t get it,” Louis flushes, his voice rising, “I don’t know what I’d do if he left. He can’t leave me.”

“That’s what you’re afraid of? Haz will take off?” Niall shouts, throwing his hands up. “He’d never fucking leave you – he went to Florida to rescue on his fucking white horse, you _idiot_. He stood by you then – he’ll stand by you now.”

Niall wants to throttle him. Louis’s stance is defensive, gloved hands balled into fists by his sides and he can feel his eyes follow the line of his back as he pushes the stack of books out of the way, ripping the front cover of his marine biology book open and finding the letter. Inside the paper is folded and seemingly innocent, but it burns as Niall passes it to him.

Louis takes it, holding it like he’s terrified of it.

“Get another test until you find results,” Niall demands firmly, “Until you know. There’s treatment if you start prevention early – ”

“I know that, thanks,” Louis cuts him off, but his angry veneer is ruined when he sniffles. “Don’t you think I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on it?”

“This isn’t something you can hide. It affects people,” Niall says instead. “If you don’t tell him, and he gets sick, he’ll never forgive you. He’ll always love you, but he’d never look at you the same.”

“Harry’s love is finite, just like the rest of us,” Louis settles on finally, and the words hang in the air between, gutting Niall.

 _Of course it is_ , he thinks to himself. He’s known that from the beginning. Louis looks small and damaged and lovely, and Niall wants to wrap him up in a hug for all the shrapnel he’s endured and is still enduring.  The fight is long from over, and it may never end. He’s tired.

Louis’ eyes are wet when Niall looks up again, his voice is vulnerable when he finally speaks. “I’m sorry I let everything turn to shit between us. I wish – I never meant to take you for granted. You’re one of my best mates - one of the best people I know.”

This is why despite all of Louis’ shitty actions and selfish, thoughtless behavior, Niall will always love him. Louis never says what he means and only if he absolutely has to, but when he does it counts. A knife twists in his heart, tender and hot, and Niall nearly embraces Louis before he can stop himself. They stand there, breathing, and Niall finally lets out a heavy sigh.

“I don’t know if I can - be your friend again. But if you need me to be there...I will. It’ll be okay.”

It sounds like giving in, but Niall doesn't care.

“What if it isn’t, though?” Louis confesses, wiping his running nose with his sleeve. “What if it’s really difficult?”

“Then it becomes really difficult,” Niall affirms, shrugging. “When you love someone, that doesn’t change anything.”

-

Zayn fingers rouse Niall from where he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. It’s dark out; well into the evening, and the television has been turned off. The entire flat is bathed in darkness, and Niall is warm and befuddled, sinking into Zayn’s cold, hesitant touch.

“I didn’t even hear you come in,” he murmurs thickly, sitting up and shuffling to his bed. He hears the drop of Zayn’s shirt on the floor; when he turns around, he sees the dim street lamp illuminate the tattoo on Zayn's chest like a spotlight. Shadows cling to his ribcage like ghosts shifting around corners.

“You were dead to the world,” Zayn muses softly, a laugh escaping under his breath. He’s staring at Niall with opal colored reverence, his eyes shining. Niall flops back into his bed, pulling the blankets up to his neck and tucking them between his shoulder and his chin.

He feels the dip of the bed; his ears know when Zayn’s finally settled, his cold knee overlapping Niall’s underneath the heap of blankets. Niall clears his throat like he’s been ill, still thick with sleep. He asks Zayn, “Do you think we’re damaged?”

“Damaged?” Zayn reiterates. “What do you mean?”

“Damaged, like,” Niall exhales heavily, his mouth moving in part against the cotton pillow. “Like the people we wanted didn’t want us, too.”

“No,” Zayn shakes his head in the dark. “I don’t think it makes us damaged. At least, not in the way you’re saying. I think the better question is why we - why we choose damaged people. People we can’t have.”

Niall exhales loudly. “The summer before my sophomore year, I met with some friends down in Soho for a few. I was jumped later that night, my wallet stolen.”

“Niall,” Zayn interrupts, hand coming up to grip tightly at his shoulder, his voice breaking on the double L of Niall’s name, cracking like split wood.

“You were right,” Niall admits, his skin rippling with a shiver. He crowds closer to Zayn until he can feel just the faintest hint of body heat, the nearby indistinct sound of his resting heartbeat. He swallows and it feels like choking, suffocating with what he’s about to say. “Harry became safe for me. He was safe.”

“I should have been there,” Zayn curses, his derisive tone softened by the quietness. Niall can hear the wet distraught of his voice, his tongue curling with an foreign anger. He keeps his scars so well hidden, sometimes Niall forgets Zayn’s history until times like this, and he’s reminded. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with you,” Niall counters. “I went out a few weeks ago and met someone. I thought – well. We were drunk and I think I asked for it. I don’t know.”

“What the fuck,” Zayn cries roughly, “Niall, what the fuck?”

“You said it yourself,” he answers, “I’m just as fucked up as you are. What happened to me with that guy - does that make me a victim? Or a slut? You’re probably the only person who could tell me. The only person who knows me. But you fuck off - every time, to Liam. You preach about Harry not deserving me, well, funny, that.”

“Liam and I are complicated,” he starts but Niall shakes his head, upset with Zayn’s write off.

“It’s not his couch you’re crashing on,” he argues, “Think about it. He only wants you when you’re convenient.”

Zayn sucks in a breath like he’s been punched, and Niall’s mouth floods with hot guilt. He grips at Zayn’s wrist, pulls at the grip from his shoulder until it relents, and Niall can curl Zayn’s fist into something pliable, holding it close to his chest. He noses at the skin of his shoulder, near the raised line of a tattoo.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment.

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Zayn swallows audibly, “Just don’t like hearing it.” Then he says, “You need to tell me what happened to you. What he did to you.”

Even trying to form the words makes his body seize and shut down. He shakes his head. “I can’t right now,” he says, voice caught in his chest and aching. Before Zayn can object, he sighs. “Give me time.”

Niall rolls towards him until his body overlaps Zayn’s, hip to hip like checkmates. His skin is warm and smells like spice and laundry soap, like Niall’s bed. He presses his cheek into the tender muscle of Zayn’s neck, mouth breathing wetly over his Adam’s apple. Everything is quiet inside the flat, even the moody radiator and the cumbersome refrigerator, even Brooklyn, even the city and the water surrounding the city. Even the ocean. Niall doesn’t feel settled at all, his stomach flopping like he’s standing against the ledge with his toes nearly over the line and train is arriving, the window blowing against his dry eyes.

He braves it. “I want to feel like someone’s first choice.”

Zayn understands without saying anything, his face twisted down to look at Niall. He nods. “Okay.”

There are no more words after that. They roll, Zayn brushing back the few pieces of Niall’s messy fringe off his forehead with the pads of his fingers, his knee coming up to nestle between his legs. Niall’s thighs fall open around Zayn, an invitation, his lips parting to accommodate the small sigh that escapes him.

This is the moment they could go back, separate, turn and fall asleep. They don’t.

Niall can tell Zayn is being gentle with him, that he’d never kiss Liam this way, that he challenges Liam and taunts him. Any other time it would make Niall angry, always babied by Zayn, but right now he’s okay with it. Grateful, even, because he’s not sure he would be able to handle anything else.

Zayn’s fingers crawl up his sides, underneath his jumper, thumb brushing against his nipple before trailing to fit against his sternum, pressing there like he’s molding clay. He closes his eyes, even though Zayn is quite possibly the most beautiful creature ever to be: crooked spine, skin like a burnt desert sunset, narrow, half smiling eyes.

Niall’s already got a half chub resting against his thigh and he knows Zayn can feel from the way they move their hips together, like waves crashing, tongues touching, breath hot and pulsating against the column of his neck. Here he is spouting poetry about the pigment of Zayn’s skin and his voracious mouth, blood searing as it sits just underneath his cheeks.

It reminds him of a poem he can’t place where he heard. When it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget they forget they were horses –

Niall flips them again, knees on either of side of Zayn, touching him freely and without fear, the carved ridges of his cheekbones, a thumbnail against the bow of his bottom lip, pressing in to feel the tip of his tongue, the salty readiness of his gaze. They smell of heady sex just as they’ve barely begun to touch, Zayn’s bare heaving and skin pebbling underneath his touch.

Zayn is a horse who doesn’t know he is a horse: stronger and more fearsome and more beautiful that he knows. He could outrun them all, and they would be left in only his dust, the ghost of his smell, and yet he’s under the pad of Niall’s thumb, transcendent, asking.

-

They don’t talk about it after: it’s Christmas Eve.

Zayn has been on the phone half the morning to his Aunt, talking away in pieces of English and Spanish, his loose Floridian tongue melting back into his speech as he laments his situation in New York and promises to come home soon. His sincere anger makes a Niall’s stomach curl dejectedly, because he knows Zayn only blames himself.

Zayn doesn’t ask about what happened to Niall, why there was blood in the sink. Niall doesn’t know if he can bring it up again, so he forgets about it, pushes it to the far corners of his mind, and closes the lid. Sometimes there aren’t any right ways to deal with what happens to you. When the bruises from his brain fade, when he is stronger, he’ll revisit it. He’ll deal.

They eat box creamy mash and store pre-cooked turkey with gravy, sitting on the couch underneath a dozen quilts. Zayn’s toes are tucked under Niall’s bum as they watch the television in relative silence. It’s a commercial break during a showing of It’s A Wonderful Life when Zayn breaks the quiet hum of their evening.

“If you had the money, would you go home for Christmas?” he asks with a raised brow.

“I do,” Niall answers with a frown, “I could’ve, if I really wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

He pauses, unable to find the right words. “Not much to go back to. Me mam’s got a fiancé, and they’re with my brother Greg this time of the year. I’d just be in the way.”

“I always picture you to have a large family,” Zayn muses, “Lots of cousins and aunts and uncles all waiting at the airport, you know, a big sort who were embarrassing and doting.”

“Why?” Niall furrows his brow, trying to picture Zayn picturing him with a bunch of chummy Irish family. An image of him buried beneath a bunch of arms in a tight embrace comes to mind, and it feels foreign. “I never – “

“I know,” Zayn interrupts him. “You never did. I just liked the idea of you coming from a large family, who all loved you. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not fucking stupid,” Niall snaps halfheartedly, setting his plate down on the table and rising up onto his knees. “Maybe stereotypical, but not stupid.”

Zayn laughs, a bright pearl of light bursting from him. He looks young when he smiles, even more so when he giggles, like a child caught with a treat who has no fear of punishment. He shakes his head then, still grinning. “Can’t help it. You’re my lucky charm.”

“Now you’re taking the piss,” Niall rolls his eyes, slumping down next to Zayn and leaning his cheek against the bone of his shoulder.

They lapse into silence then, the movie resuming, Niall comforted by the familiar smell of Zayn’s cotton t shirt and slightly clammy skin, too warm from being burrowed in the blankets. He realizes he must have fallen asleep, because his glasses are pulled off his face and folded on the crowded coffee table.

At one point his phone buzzes against his hip and he shuffles sleepily, Zayn tinkering in his galley kitchen with the temperamental kettle.

_What do you want? You want the moon?_

It’s from Harry, and something niggles inside of Niall, sleepy and disorientated as he stares at it. Of course he’d be watching the same film. They had done so together the year before, curled up like opposite punctuation marks in the Styles’ family den.  It hadn’t snowed that year in England, and so the weather was damp and foul, and Niall remembers mirroring that feeling. He had finally got to be with Harry, and it was everything but what he wanted.

A year ago – no, a few months ago, before Louis’ return, before Mississippi, Niall can imagine himself grabbing his coat and making his way to Manhattan to stand on Harry’s doorstep, soaked from the downpour. He would have said No, I don’t want the moon. Just you.

Loving Harry has been the one consistent thing in Niall’s life since he left everything he knew behind in Ireland and moved to New York. Loving Harry has become only second to breathing, and Niall’s been winded for a long time. It’s time. It’s time for a change.

Letting him go feels like shedding the entirety of his skin, if that were possible. It’s not possible – Niall knows from countless lectures in Biology it isn’t – but the human body regenerates its epidermis over the span of seven years, sometimes faster or slower given the climate. He looks down at the bony structure of his hands, the rough points of his knuckles, the blue veins that flex with his fingers. His existence can only be transferred to this; he cannot be defined by his devotion to Harry, or anyone else.

It sounds arbitrary, to realize one can only exist on their own. But it feels revolutionary.  

 _Happy Christmas, Harry_ , he finally texts and then as an afterthought, a reminder for Harry and his thoughtless whims, he adds, _to Lou and the girls too_.

-

Christmas day strikes, but Niall expects it. Even though he hates this holiday, he can’t help but feel a sense of relief, similar to the way you’re waiting for bad news: finally, at least it’s over. The city is sheathed in a brand new blanket of white, giving the skyscrapers a snow globe appeal, and it makes Niall want to duck his head, as if the sky is hanging far too low.

Mostly they sleep till two in the afternoon, Zayn’s mouth pressed up against the flat, warm expanse of Niall’s abdomen, his ankles hanging off the bed. Niall stares at flats of his feet for a long time, trying to picture them walking along the cracked earth of outer Kabul when he was a child, a city Niall’s only seen on television when it was past the brinks of destruction.

He wants to imagine the same fate of Mullingar, and his heart clenches at the thought of dead shopkeepers and bombed school buildings; these are the victims they never show on CNN. Politicians know better than to get too close to the wars they start.

Zayn’s never told him as much about how he feels about Kabul, or his roots in Pakistan. It’d be easy to write it off as disassociation, because Zayn so clearly fell in love with his adopted Cuban culture, and the Spanish language Maria bestowed on him as a kid, but Niall thinks it runs deeper in that. You don’t forget where you come from, no matter the distance you’ve travelled from there. In Zayn’s case, no one lets him forget, either.

They rise late in the day when dusk has nearly settled, bellies empty and unfeeling, dressing in all their layers from where they sat on top of the radiators. The sky is a grayish benevolence above them, the combination of the snow and the city lights never letting it become too dark.

“It’s like there’s no one in the city but us,” Zayn murmurs, the harshest points of his voice muffled by a scarf. Niall raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Everything feels soft and muted, like he’s revisiting an old dream.

They walk more, until they reach the Brooklyn Bridge, and then they walk to the middle of that, standing over the water. Niall looks over, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“One time,” he says, gesturing with his mitten, “I came out here at five in the morning, before the sun was up. Just turned nineteen – you remember, you called me the next day,” he doesn’t turn to look at Zayn, fixated on the blackwater, powerful and haunted as it travels slowly south. “I wanted to jump. I thought I was going to jump.”

“Niall,” Zayn’s voice is clear this time, his muffler removed, his mouth wet with saliva. He looks beautiful, even now, and Niall wonders why he never realized this before.

He continues, “I didn’t, though. I just stood there, watching the water pass, waited for the sun to come up. It was the tail end of summer, then. I could feel the warmth on the back of me neck. I thought ‘what if I never felt this again?’ The sun, I mean.”

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says, and when Niall looks at him it’s obvious he’s upset about Niall’s confession. Niall moves to him, closer, touching his arm, wondering if he can feel it through all the layers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“No,” Niall disagrees, “I didn’t tell you to make you feel shit. I told you because I love you, and you deserve to know. The bad bits of me, I didn’t think anyone could handle. The next day, you called, and we laughed about old times.”

Niall takes a breath, then exhales, it coming out in a slow opaque cloud from his mouth like cigarette smoke. As a kid it used to be fun, breathing like this in the cold.

“Zayn,” he says his name like striking a match, “It was never your fault. What happened to you, who you are. You came back. You came back to us, and you never had to.”

“I don’t know what that says about me,” he admits, his brow furrowed and intense; they’ve resumed walking down the bridge towards Manhattan, but Niall stops them again, a hand on his arm.

“It says you’ve got a heart,” Niall tells him bluntly, “A fucking big one, chief.”

By the time they reach Central Park, there are a few more couples here and there, but mostly they’re alone in the city that never sleeps, apparently put to rest. They walk down the abandoned, forgotten, dirty bits of the park, the roads less travelled on, and Niall thinks, I don’t want to be without this person.

“Hey,” he stops Zayn near a bench where no one has sat, the snow still piled high on the seat. Zayn’s cheeks are flushed crimson. Niall’s mittens are icy and wet when he cups his jaw, leaning downward and kissing Zayn flush on the mouth, his glasses askew.

It’s not a perfect kiss, too numb and bitter with cold, but Zayn responds with a sharp inhale, hands pulling Niall close like he’s slotting them together. That’s what Niall feels like: like he’s in the right place. Like he belongs here.

-

The snow doesn’t abade, but the Christmas cheer dissipates thankfully and Niall is almost eager to start back up working at the student union and organizing study groups once more.

It’s not until just the weekend before Niall’s due to resume his spring schedule when Zayn disappears for nearly the entire day, and something twists deep in his chest. It’s not - they’re not dependent, exactly, and he’d never expect Zayn to tell him where he goes, but. But all the same, Niall can’t help feel strange. He’d thought they’d bypassed Zayn’s disappearing act. Maybe it’s his own fault, talking up his semester the way he had been in front of Zayn, carelessly and and stupid.

In a moment of weakness and boredom like this, Niall would usually find himself with Harry, at a bar in Brooklyn or mucking about around campus, studying and laughing and pretending he doesn’t have hearts in his bloody eyes.

The truth of it is when Niall needed him, Harry wasn’t there. Not when Niall called him in Florida and asked him to come home, not when he was mugged in that alley, not when he let that Matt bloke buy him a round of drinks and knock his cheek in, or when he crawled home, bleeding into the seat of his pants -

It was easy to tell Zayn that Liam only wanted him when he was convenient. It’s exponentially harder to tell yourself the same thing. Niall should have taken his own fucking advice.

He ends up travelling through Central Park again, cheeks bitten raw with wind and feet trudging through dirty snow as he wanders up towards Park avenue. A friendly face would cheer him, probably, and keep the nostalgic headache at bay. Sometimes New York embitters him, the skyscrapers and corporations unfamiliar and cold in comparison to his tiny village back in Ireland. There’s no such thing as home for him, though, and only in weak moments like this does that hurt.

It is not Liam’s doorman nor Liam himself who greets him in the entry hall when Niall presses for the elevator, but an ashen faced Zayn, who by the looks of it, was just on his way out. They meet eyes for a moment, and Zayn looks like he might speak, before Liam comes following him out, his brow drawn up in consternation.

“Oh,” Liam says, his expression dropping into something more neutral. “Niall. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Just in the neighborhood,” he bites out voice, covered halfway by his scarf. He feels as if he has to physically force his eyes away from Zayn to look at Liam, trying to lighten the mood. “Didn’t mean to drop in unannounced like a tart.”

“No,” Liam shakes his head, “You weren’t. We were just - ” He’s unable to finish his sentence, his adam’s apple bobbing heavily as he swallows. Niall realizes they’re both now looking at Zayn, faces hungry, and he feels so fucking sick to his stomach.

“Look, we’ll see each other tuesday, during our afternoon block,” Niall excuses roughly, clearing his throat. His chest rumbles like he has a cold. “I’ll catch up with you then, promise.”

“You sure?” Liam asks, though he can’t keep his eyes from following the shift line of Zayn’s shoulders as he stands caught between them.

“Definitely,” Niall nods, and then salutes them both with a shaky hand, “I’ll see you lads later.”

So that’s how it is, then. Niall wonders if he’s going to have a cry right there in the rotating doors before he’s whisked out onto the street again, the cold stinging his teeth. His feet can’t take him away quick enough as he burrows against the wind, hands deep in his coat pockets. He can’t see anything else but the way Zayn’s jaw had flexed, embarrassed, guilty, pitying. He pities Niall, and Niall’s attached to anyone who will give him five seconds of their time.

Embarrassment is rife within him, thinking back to all the horrid things Niall confessed to Zayn; things he never even told Harry, nevermind Liam or Louis. It's partly Zayn’s own fault, manipulating Niall the way he did, telling him he never let anyone close. Zayn is so critical of Harry and Niall’s friendship, angry with the blatant way Harry led Niall on. And Niall had believed him. Niall let him in.

 _You don’t fucking get it, do you, Niall?_ Zayn had snapped at him when they were camping in Georgia. He can’t stop replaying it in his head. Zayn’s upper lip had curled in disgust, fed up with Niall’s naivete and denial.

Niall hadn’t said anything then, too horrified to answer. He doesn’t know what he’d have said then, but he wished he had answered.

 _Yeah_ , he wants to say, voice wrecked and body shaking. _I get it now_.

-

It’s not until he’s just passed 57th street that he realizes he’s being followed, the call of his name swallowed in the passersbys until now, where he’s stopped at the corner. He turns slowly, finding Zayn’s flushed face coming into his view as he weaves between rush hour ped traffic.

“Christ, you fucking walk fast,” Zayn curses, his clenched hand rubbing the corner of his mouth. “Why’d you just take off like that?”

Any other time Niall would answer him and deflect, but he’s weak, now. He’s show Zayn his entire hand, and it makes him reckless and hurt. So he says, “I can’t believe you went back to him. Do you know how fucked up that is?”

“I didn’t,” Zayn interrupts him immediately, his brow knotting. Niall shakes his head, turning towards central park even though the subway back to Brooklyn is the opposite. He can feel Zayn follow him, tailing him through briefcases and strollers.

“Look, I don’t want to talk to you right now,” Niall murmurs mutinously, trying to shake Zayn off once they hit the corner. Zayn balks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. _Believe it_ , Niall thinks. Fucking believe it.

“Ni, come on,” Zayn grounds out, gripping the elbow of his coat. He turns, wrenching his arm out of Zayn’s grip, just inside corner of the park, the familiar noisy bustle of the Zoo reaching them.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Niall snaps, stepping back.

Whatever he’s said seems to finally rile Zayn up. “ _Asshole_ \- ” he reiterates with outrage. “What, you’re so American now? So ‘New York’? Jesus fuck, Niall. I’m trying to talk to you. Liam’s got this stupid fucking idea that he’s going to fly to Pakistan to document the drone strikes. I went to try and convince him not to.”

Niall swallows, his voice a knot twisting in his throat. Zayn shakes his head sadly, “I didn’t fuck him. God, you think you’re so - the only person I’ve been thinking about for days, weeks, is _you._ ”

“ _Me_ ,” Niall repeats, his voice dead quiet. “I don’t understand you at all.”

His laugh is harsh and biting to Niall’s ears. “You told me you wanted someone to choose you first. You told me that. But what about how I felt - didn’t you think for a second what it would do to me? You think the way we fuck doesn’t mean anything? Harry’s fucked you up more than that I thought.”

“Fuck you,” Niall curses, nearly turning around before Zayn grabs onto him.

“No, that’s not my point. Christ. You were my first friend in New York, and not because I was exotic or because I look like I do. You just - you just _liked_ me. And then this Christmas you’re telling me all this shit about what’s happened to you...you were letting me in. It was a big fucking deal for you. I should have listened more. I should have told you. I’m always so shitty with this…”

Zayn sighs, his exhale opaque in the cold like a pillow of cigarette smoke. Niall looks down to find one tucked, unlit, between his fingers. Niall understands, his mouth flooded with heat. He understands what Zayn cannot articulate.

“This won’t fix me,” Niall says derisively, “I’m fucked up. Just because we’re - ”

“I’m not saying it would,” Zayn rubs a hand over his mouth, but the corners of his lips are tilted upwards in a wayward smile. He is gaunt and serious and beautiful under the overcast Manhattan sky. “Don’t you think we could be good together, though?”

“Yes,” Niall says, and his voice is bitten with clarity and the anxiety that arrives with it. He pulls at Zayn, closer but not touching; it doesn’t matter. Niall can feel Zayn’s heart from here, beating and bloody and he puts his hand over it, thinking _yeah, we could be so good together_.

-

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My tumblr is lavenderforl-uck .

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome constructive critique. My tumblr is lavenderforl-uck.


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